Work Text:
all that glitters | kth
⟶ 𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺:❝ suddenly, light engulfs the stage, lambent shafts of gilded light beaming from the spotlight and directly onto the shadowy figure. and in the very same instant, taehyung finds his breath stolen from him. you. ❞
- ➵ content warnings:
- jealousy possessive behaviour possessive!taehyung
- ➵ smut warnings:
- dom!taehyung ︱sub!reader ︱big cock!taehyung ︱teasing ︱biting ︱marking/bruising ︱public sex ︱dirty talk ︱fingering ︱panty stuffing ︱wet and messy ︱praise ︱nipple/breast play ︱slight masochism ︱pain kink ︱degradation ︱begging ︱female masturbation ︱male masturbation ︱mutual masturbation ︱slight guided masturbation ︱multiple orgasms ︱grinding ︱masturbation with panties ︱unprotected sex ︱cum play ︱spanking ︱spitting ︱cock slapping ︱rough sex ︱crying ︱piano sex ︱standing doggy ︱scratching ︱multiple creampies
A little before the clock strikes 10 pm, Taehyung enters Velour—one of the many clubs under his ownership in the heart of Las Vegas.
The entire establishment is full—every single table occupied by the patrons of the club—and as his eyes sweep over the room, he notes the obvious skew in the clientele: the throng of congregating men evidently outnumbering the sporadically interspersed female clients. Smooth jazz thrums in the background, the deep warbles intermingling with those of the lively chatter from the guests as they wine and dine, and the staff that bustle around as they get ready for the start of the show; the sounds coalescing into an electrically charged milieu of vibrancy and effervescence. Whilst taking in the astir atmosphere, Taehyung is swiftly approached by a man.
“Mr Kim, it’s so good to see you again. It’s been a few months since you’ve visited,” the man greets politely, yet cheerfully.
Angling his head to the side, Taehyung graces his club’s manager with a small smile, “Marcus, it’s been a while. There was a problem at Luxure that took a while to sort out.”
“Ah. Yes, we heard. Something about the pipes that caused a flood?” the manager responds, his eyebrows knitting together. Taehyung merely nods his head. “Well, I hope it’s all sorted now,” Marcus continues.
“Hopefully. I had some new pipes installed but there was a fair amount of water damage. Still, a lot of the interior was ruined, so I had to spend some time redesigning it. But, my part is done. It’s all on the construction workers and designers now,” Taehyung elucidates.
“Well, at least you have more time to visit us now. The staff and I have missed you,” Marcus responds, his words completely earnest, with not a single hint of a lie. Though, why would he lie? Las Vegas—colloquially known as Sin City—is infamously known for its wicked and immoral nightlife; the metropolis rife with numerous casinos and countless clubs.
And Kim Taehyung owns a monopoly on them.
Taehyung—one of Forbes’ 400—was notoriously known throughout the entirety of Las Vegas for having the best, most upscale clubs, and if anyone knew Vegas, they knew that there was certainly no shortage of them. Any famously popular, extravagantly high-end, or selectively exclusive club that made its home in Las Vegas was owned by Taehyung, the young entrepreneur not only making a name for himself in the clubbing scene but firmly establishing himself as his well-known epithet: the King of Clubs. And as a result of his various business ventures, the man had amassed an exorbitant abundance of wealth.
In fact, just as he is casually standing here, Marcus Dawson could confidently bet Taehyung was raking in millions.
Thus, between his incredibly successful businesses—every employee, from the waiters to the managers, of his many, many establishments earning more than enough to live comfortably—and his seemingly limitless bank account—Taehyung spending lavishly and tipping generously whenever he visited his clubs—there was not a single staff member under his employment that did not anticipate his visits. Mostly because, as long as he was pleased with the way things were running, bonuses and pay rises were next to guaranteed.
Taehyung smiles warmly at the dark-skinned man, his lips pulling into his trademark boxy grin. “Thank you. I myself have missed coming here. Velour is by far my favourite club,” Taehyung responds in kind. Then after a short pause, “And not just because it is the club I dreamed to own one day. It’s also because it runs smoothly, business is always stable if not increasing, and the management is impeccable,” he continues appraisingly.
At his boss’ praise, a proud grin creeps onto Marcus’ face, his shoulders rolling back as he stands straighter. “Thank you, sir,” Marcus responds. Then, tilting his body, Marcus gestures with his hand, “After you, sir.”
With that, Taehyung nods at the tall man before easily navigating to his personal booth, Marcus following closely by his side. As he crosses the floor, Taehyung takes a moment to inspect his establishment.
In contrast to the neon signs and blinding lights that brighten the streets of Las Vegas, the interior of Velour is much more subdued. Dark walls—painted satin black—and sleek floors—lacquered with a walnut stain—enclose the interior, the deep colours transforming the space into an adumbral chamber. Three cut-glass crystal chandeliers dangle from the ceiling, the vintage lamps embellished with a deep ruby trimming, whilst matching sconces, the wrought metal fittings burnished lustrous gold, decorate the walls; the strategically placed lighting serving to illuminate the club whilst also casting shadows in secluded corners. Booths upholstered with beige velvet—each complete with high backrests in order to privatise them—line the perimeter and dining furniture handcrafted from ebony wood—each furnished with plush cherry cushions—fill the majority of the open floor space.
Most of the club is taken up by the dining space, with a majority of the patrons booking the lower-priced tables—subjective to the club’s prices, of course—than the much more expensive, and coveted semi-private booths. At the far end of the club, a stage makes its home to the back wall, with all the tables carefully positioned to allow any diner a clear view of the night’s entertainment. Carmine curtains of crushed velvet hang from the ceiling, concealing the mic stand and Grand Piano behind it. Directly opposite the stage, sits the bar, the space backlit with soft, saffron fluorescent lighting that provides a soft glow over the space, the light reflecting off of the top-shelf liquor bottles.
All in all, the entire club screams lavish and extravagant, not a single spot indicating anything less than luxury and grandeur. When he had opened his first club, it hadn’t been at this level of opulence, yet, with this being his dream club—the one he had imagined when he’d been dreaming almost a decade ago—Taehyung was immensely proud of what he’s accomplished.
Hence why Velour is his favourite club.
Within moments, both he and Marcus arrive at his personal booth, the small enclosure situated in a far corner of the club for the utmost privacy. Noting the silver, ice-filled bucket with a chilled bottle of Dom Pérignon—the surface dripping with beads of condensation—and the selection of artful canapes—each one one of his favourites—Taehyung’s smile widens. This was another reason Velour was his favoured club; the staff went above and out of their way to cater to his tastes.
“Here you go, sir,” Marcus says while gesturing politely to his booth.
“Thank you, Marcus,” Taehyung replies as he gracefully slides into the booth. “I heard you found a replacement for Lilian?”
“We did. Lyra Nightingale. She’s a wonderful singer,” Marcus praises. While he speaks, he pops Taehyung’s champagne before pouring him a glass, Taehyung listening diligently. “She’s substituted for both Lilian and Roxanne a few times and whenever she did, we’ve always had customers compliment her. Some even asked when she’d be returning. She’s opening for Roxanne tonight,” Marcus informs before handing Taehyung his champagne flute.
Taehyung cocks an eyebrow at that. Both Lilian and Roxanne are favourites at Velour, and considering they’d worked at the club since its opening—developing quite the loyal fanbase in their time—it’s a surprise that the patrons of Velour were interested in anyone else. It wasn’t an easy feat, thus, Taehyung instantaneously knows she has to be immensely talented. Typically, Taehyung wouldn’t consider hiring another singer; Roxanne and Lilian were both capable of performing diligently through the week. Nonetheless, Lilian’s wife has recently given birth, and the two decided to move away from Las Vegas.
Taking a sip of the vintage champagne, “Has she signed a contract?” he asks. Marcus inclines his head.
“Not yet. The contract is drafted up and ready to go. However, we informed her that both she, and the contract, would need your approval before we can permanently hire her,” Marcus replies.
Taehyung hums in approval. Before he can respond, however, the lights suddenly dim. Darkness consumes the club, the obscurity enhanced by the sable walls and hickory floor; the flickering of candlelight from the table centrepieces the only light within the stygian tenebrosity. Instantly, the amicable chatter morphs into an abrupt silence, only a few excited murmurs rippling through the air.
“Ladies and gentleman, please give a warm welcome to Lyra Nightingale,” the MC introduces over the speaker.
“Ah, I will leave you to it, sir. I hope you enjoy the show,” Marcus dismisses himself with a short bow.
“Thank you,” Taehyung nods before turning his attention to the stage.
The velour curtains slowly slide open, the seam splitting apart only to reveal a luxurious golden backdrop and a shadowy outline of a curvaceous figure. Between the darkness shrouding the club, the croceate glow of the faint candlelight, and the mellow, luteous stage lights, she’s merely a veiled silhouette. Yet, in spite of that, the curvature of her shape is prominent.
And the moment his eyes sweep over her frame, Taehyung pauses.
His features twist, his lips down turning into a frown of thought, whilst his eyebrows knit together. For some reason, the shape of her body is known to him. And for the life of him, he can’t figure out why.
But, then, he hears it.
The first notes. A low, dulcet humming that rings through the air. A voice oh so familiar to him.
Instantly, memories of you surface in his mind.
Memories of euphonic singing filling his kitchen, when you’d wear nothing but his shirt, and the bruises he’d stained your skin with the night before, ones that perfectly matched the shape of his lips and his fingers. Memories of soft crooning that would echo through his bathroom and into his ears, your bodies brushing against each other, grazing touches and tender kisses while you showered together. Memories of melodious warbling that would overtake the silence of his bedroom, broken only by your slightly erratic breaths as you lay naked in his arms, your body perfectly slotted against his while his face was pressed to your chest and your fingers aimlessly—mindlessly—stroked his sweat-dampened hair.
The memories flood his brain, each and everyone playing so vividly he knew they were etched forever into his soul.
Suddenly, light engulfs the stage, lambent shafts of gilded light beaming from the spotlight and directly onto the shadowy figure. And in the very same instant, Taehyung finds his breath stolen from him.
It’s you.
His sugar baby.
And under flavescent spotlights, you’re beautiful.
The aureate luminescence cascades over you, reflecting off of your rich undertones, causing your skin to gleam. A coy smile graces your lips, the petals painted a deep burgundy, drawing attention to their sensuous shape. Dark eyes glint from under thick, fluttering eyelashes, a mischievous flicker alight in their depths. Perfectly styled hair—bearing thick, glamorous curls—bounce with each of your movements, giving you an almost unattainable effervescent quality.
Heavy gaze trailing down your body, he shifts in his seat as he recognises your dress and your necklace—both of them gifted to you by him. The gold-sequined gown swathes your form like a second skin, the material clinging to your shape and emphasising each and every curve and contour. Light rebounds off of the sequins adorning your dress, the glinting only further drawing attention to your figure. Unable to help himself, Taehyung finds his eyes tracing you, his scrutiny ravenously devouring the tantalising swell of your breasts, the sensuous outline of your hips and the plump fullness of your thighs.
It’s the necklace that decorates your neck, however, that truly has his eyes churning with turbulence; the diamond-encrusted choker that elegantly ornaments the arc of your throat—the very one that lays his claim on you.
The backing track begins playing, the sensuous, baritone sound mingling with the pianist’s first notes, and your ariose humming. And then, you begin moving to the beat. And Taehyung feels his throat dry, the muscles of his oesophagus tightening involuntarily. Your hips sway enticingly, the movement causing the floor-length gown to shift in tandem, revealing a hint of the bare flesh of your left leg through the once inconspicuous slit. You begin singing, your purposely raspy, mellifluous voice ringing through the silence of the bar, accompanying the backing music in perfect harmony.
A wonderstruck silence enshrouds the atmosphere, each of the guests left completely captivated by your voice, not a single noise disturbing the sound of you or the music. The awed stillness has a smile creeping onto Taehyung’s lips, and features twisting, he adopts an expression of delighted satisfaction and beaming pride.
Taehyung would have never imagined that Lyra Nightingale was you. He knows you loved singing, it came almost second nature to you, and you did it so often, that he doubted you even knew you were doing it anymore. Yet, despite the three years he’d known you, he’d never once suspected you would want to be on stage. If he’d known, he’d have signed you onto one of his clubs a long time ago. Alas, you’d never told him—a thought that has Taehyung frowning.
Why had you not told him?
Your title may be sugar baby—currently—however, your relationship is considerably more significant than that. You’ve been his sugar baby for three years, and the only woman in his life for two, Taehyung cutting off ties with any romantic, or sexual, partner the moment he realised he was slowly falling for you. You aren’t his girlfriend, not yet at least. Though, the only reason you don’t have that title is due to the way your relationship began; Taehyung wanted to make sure that both your feelings for him, and his feelings for you, were more than just sexual. Nonetheless, Taehyung would rectify that tonight. Along with the question of why you hadn’t told him of your career choice.
However, for now, he’s content to bask in the pride he feels with you on stage.
Though, that pride is short-lived as the first song comes to the end.
Suddenly, the atmosphere shifts, and sucking in sharply, Taehyung feels his breath catch in his chest.
The second beat begins; a low, sensuous thrumming that resonates through the air. From his private booth, Taehyung watches as you unclasp the mic from the stand before deliberately walking towards the Grand Piano. Each step is intentional, the motion causing the split in your dress to splay open, granting both him—and every other onlooker—a clear view of your leg, from your stiletto donned feet to your chain wrapped thigh. Instantly, his pride is stained by a ripple of possessiveness, his expression souring as he realises that he’s not the only man lusting after you—but the rest of the entire club is too.
Nevertheless, for your happiness, Taehyung is more than content to accept the inkling of bitterness. The other men are irrelevant. You’re his. It’s his bed you lie in almost every night, his arms you seek comfort in, and his kisses and bruises that litter your body.
Alas, every rationale he has disappears out the window the moment he watches you lean against the piano.
Though, it’s not your action that’s the problem.
It’s the pianist’s.
Through his dark, tumultuous gaze, he observes the way Isaac Dyer—the pianist—leans into you, his eyes taking on an almost dreamy aspect as he looks at you. Throughout the rest of your performance, Isaac’s attention almost never leaves you. When you lean over the top of the piano, your breasts pushed together, Isaac’s eyes flick to your chest. When you sashay around the piano, Isaac follows the shape of your ass. When your body sways to the beat, Isaac can’t help but stare at your hips. And, bitterly, Taehyung commends his talent—because not once does he miss a note, even with his concentration fixated solely on you.
Engrossed in your performance, you don’t notice Isaac’s attention. In fact, you barely pay him any mind.
But, just because you don’t notice, doesn’t mean Taehyung doesn't.
For the rest of your show, Taehyung’s emotions vacillate like a pendulum, between the immense pride he feels watching you do what you love, and the incisive irritation he feels towards the lust-filled attention Isaac pays you.
But, Taehyung knows his jealousy only stems from his own insecurity. After all, you may be exclusive, him as your sugar daddy, and you as his sugar baby, but that didn’t mean you were his girlfriend. And it certainly didn’t mean he had any claim to you. If you and Isaac had a thing—not that he thinks you do, after three years, he trusts you implicitly—he knows there was nothing he could say to stop it.
Simply because Taehyung hasn’t officially deemed you his girlfriend.
However, after tonight, Taehyung would make sure he redressed that.
With his mind made up, a devilishly dark smirk creeps onto his face.
Oh, he would redress that indeed.
Half an hour after Roxanne’s show comes to an end, you find yourself in the dressing room backstage, awaiting news of whether you succeeded in getting the job. The room is empty, Roxanne having left ten minutes ago, after changing out of her stage outfit, but not before complimenting you on your performance. Now, sitting at the vanity, you scrutinise yourself in the light bulb-studded mirror and evaluate your own performance. Your stomach churns with anxiousness and pulling the flesh of your inner cheek between your teeth, you unceasingly chew it.
As far as you knew, you performed to the best of your ability, and from your vantage point on the stage, the crowd had seemed both enthralled and enamoured by you— as short as it was, considering it was the opening act. However, that didn’t necessarily mean Mr V—Velour’s owner—was impressed.
Letting out a sigh, you cross your arms onto the surface of the dresser before pressing your forehead to your arm and letting out a heavy breath.
You desperately need this job.
Though, not because you’re short on money. Ever since you’d become Taehyung’s sugar baby, any and all of your financial needs were taken care of by him. It had been years since you struggled to pay your rent or afford food.
But that’s exactly why you need this job.
Because you no longer want to be Taehyung’s sugar baby.
You want more.
You’ve been financially dependent on Taehyung for close to three years now, and within that time, you had inevitably, and irrevocably fallen in love with the handsome, devilishly charming man. And now, you don’t want to just be Taehyung’s sugar baby anymore, you want to be his girlfriend, and hopefully in the future, something more. But, that wouldn’t be possible if you were still relying on him financially. It just didn’t sit right with you. More than that, you didn’t want him to think you were simply in it for the money, or because you needed him to survive within the shackles of capitalism.
You want him. Completely and wholly.
The thought of Taehyung has a wan smile curling at your lips and the worry that rattled your being is somewhat placated.
When you had first met Taehyung, you were an aspiring, but struggling, singer who had just started working as an escort. Mostly because at that point, you desperately needed the money. After all, Las Vegas wasn’t a cheap place to live in, and the rent itself could leave someone destitute. Back then, you’d mostly gotten by on temporary work, subbing for the main singers when they couldn’t make the show, or jobs in dingy, low-class clubs that people only found through back alleys; neither of which were regular or well paying enough that you could afford your bills. Thus, you had eventually gotten a job as an escort.
It was easy enough. You simply had to doll yourself up and simper on the arms of rich men while they attended different parties, galas and events. Really, you were nothing more than a glorified—though, well paid—piece of candy, a trophy for them to boast about. In fact, the only downside was how handsy some of the men could get, or when they refused to respect your boundaries as a human being. Or, in worst-case scenarios, when they had expected you to sleep with them at the end of the night. Never mind the fact that that wasn’t your job. Yet, in spite of the drawbacks, you couldn’t deny the money was good. A single night as an escort would considerably ease your financial burdens. So, you kept working as one, while continuously looking for a way to achieve your dreams of being a singer.
However, that all changed a month after. When, by complete chance, you’d met Taehyung.
You hadn’t expected your escort to be so young. Or handsome. Or charming. Or a slew of other positive synonyms you could use to describe Taehyung. Typically, men like Taehyung didn’t need to hire a date, they could easily find one themselves.
Nonetheless, it was a pleasant surprise. One you were thankful for all these years later.
The night you had spent in Taehyung’s company was one of the best, and most memorable, nights of your time as an escort. Unlike most events you’d been hired as an escort for, Taehyung’s was more relaxed and subdued—though, no less upscale or luxurious. It had been the opening night of a new rooftop restaurant and bar, one that someone would usually take a date to.
Nevertheless, you weren’t complaining. If you were being honest, as the night progressed—you and Taehyung sipping fancy, artfully-mixed cocktails while speaking under the setting sun—it had felt more like a date than a job. And by the end of the night, you’d been completely smitten. Thus, when Taehyung had dropped you off at your flat, without an inkling of expectation, you’d invited him into your home.
If perhaps your first meeting with Taehyung was memorable, it was nothing compared to the night you shared in his bed, under his muscular body, with his hips writhing between yours. And when morning came, you’d parted with a sweet kiss, a little melancholy that your time was ending so soon.
However, as though fate smiled upon you, the two of you had met again not even a week later; when Taehyung had spotted you on the arm of an old, balding man whose hands wandered more than they should have. Like a knight in an expensive suit, Taehyung had come to your aid, sweeping you off of your feet and away from the man. Naturally, your client had been pissed—after all, he’d paid for your company, not Taehyung. However, without so much as blinking, Taehyung had simply thrown a wad of cash at the man and then walked away with you. To this day, you could not forget the shock you’d felt when Taehyung had pulled out the roll of hundred dollar bills.
Really, did all rich people just carry money like that? Or was that something solely typical of Taehyung?
For the rest of your night, you had spent your time in Taehyung’s arms, the conversation between the two of you flowing as naturally as a river meandering down a mountain. In the sense that it was continuous, and never-ending—not a moment of awkward silence dulling your interaction. Being with Taehyung was instinctive, and oh so familiar, as though the two of you were fatefully destined to meet; as though he was known to you, someone who was made for you, and you for him. And once again, at the end of the night, you had found yourself in Taehyung’s arms, your bodies tangled between his silk sheets as his lips explored every inch of your skin, his passionate kisses devouring your entire being.
You had expected the next morning to progress in a similar way to the first—the only difference you leaving his apartment— with a tender kiss and a sweet goodbye.
Instead, Taehyung had blindsided you with a completely unexpected proposal: to be his sugar baby. When he’d rescued you from your client the night before, he’d asked why you worked as an escort—not in a demeaning, judgemental way—but more out of curiosity, and you’d confessed it was because you were struggling to maintain a job—though, you hadn’t specified what job—and that being an escort helped pay your rent and bills. At that time, neither of you were looking for a serious relationship, you were trying to focus on starting your career, and Taehyung was in a position where his work was more important to him. But, enjoying your company, and having the money to burn, he had no qualms in helping you financially as his exclusive sugar baby—especially if it meant that you no longer had to work as an escort.
It didn’t take much reflection to accept Taehyung’s proposal. By that point, you really enjoyed Taehyung’s company. Not to mention, you’d finally found a way of both focusing on achieving your dreams while also being able to make rent.
So, you’d almost instantly agreed.
Then, for a little over a year, you were perfectly content being Taehyung’s sugar baby, and nothing more.
That is until it changed.
You can’t pinpoint how your relationship as sugar daddy and sugar baby began shifting, or when you’d truly begin falling in love with the man. It could have been during the fancy parties, the extravagant galas, or luxurious dinners you accompanied Taehyung to, where he proudly introduced you to anyone he met. Maybe it was the quiet nights in your flats, the mornings you’d wake up in his arms, the days when you’d simply explore the quainter, more unknown spots of Vegas. Or, perhaps, just perhaps, it was in the way he held you—how his arms curled around your waist and he’d pull you into his chest. In the way he kissed you—how his lips mindlessly drifted across your skin and he nuzzled into the crooks of your body. In the way he said your name—how his tone was always as sweet as ambrosia, and tender care.
Or maybe it was everything.
Maybe it was just him.
How he smiled in that beautiful, carefree way of his. How his eyes glinted in the light, with a lustre that took your breath away. How he found a way to touch you no matter what, simply because he wanted you close to him, to feel your skin pressed to his, your body moulded to his.
But, no matter what it was, it didn’t change the outcome. That you’ve been completely in love with Taehyung for the past two years.
Alas, you hadn’t been able to expect more. Not when you rely on him financially as much as you do right now.
At least, not till now.
Now, when you finally have a golden opportunity, one where you were so close to achieving your dreams, at a club as high-class and extravagant as Velour no less. An opportunity that would not come twice.
The moment you land this job, you can finally be honest with Taehyung about your dream career, knowing that he can now be proud of you. You can finally ask if you can stop being his sugar baby, if the two of you could pursue a proper relationship instead. You hope he won’t reject you, you don’t think he will. After all, unofficially, you were basically his girlfriend—the two of you seeing each other every day; save for the days when he was working, or if you were subbing for a stage singer.
But, that was all dependent on whether you actually succeeded in getting the job.
Unease settles into your bones once again as your mind wanders back to the job. Insides quivering from the tension, your throat tightens and your limbs tingle. Feeling the muscles of your oesophagus constrict, you swallow thickly.
You know you’re putting too much emphasis on whether you succeed or not. And you know that if you confessed your anxiety to anyone, they would tell you that it isn’t the end of the world. Except they’d be wrong, and it would be the end of the world. Because if you fail now, you’d be stuck in the same position you’d always been—relying on Taehyung financially. But more than that, it would mean that you’d have to move on.
There is no plausible way for you to continue chasing your dreams after this.
It’s been more than five years of struggling to achieve your dreams, five years of constant failure and rejection, of being good enough to be a substitute singer or an opening act, but never enough to be the main performer or the headliner. And after five years, you’re worried that they were right. That the echoing voices of your friends and family ingrained in the back of your voice are right when they tell you that you’re dreaming too big, that you should stop wasting time chasing the unattainable, and instead, find a normal job like everyone else; that you’d wasted five years attempting to make your dreams come true, and yet, you still have nothing to show for it.
And now, you’re tired.
You’re tired of the heartbreak, of the inadequacy, of the disappointment, all of which consume you after rejection. You’re tired that, after all this time, you’re starting to believe the voice that parrots in the back of your head, the one that mimics the sentiments of everyone who told you you wouldn’t make it, that you’ve wasted your time wanting to sing on stage. Even though that had been your dream for as long as you could remember, even though your love for singing was etched into your bones, and carved into your core; that it was all you ever wanted to do.
The dulcet chime of piano keys rings faintly through the air, breaking you out of your wallowed reverie. Eyebrows furrowing, your head perks up and your ears strain as you listen for the sound again. It had been quiet, so muted you were sure you had imagined it. But, after a couple of moments, you hear it again, the same melodious tune. Confusion clouds your mind and back straightening, you tilt your head to the entrance of the dressing room. Isaac had long since left the club—a fact you knew because the man had stopped to compliment you on your performance, and how well you the two of you performed together—and so, the melodious tune so delicately weaving through the silence befuddles you.
Just as you consider leaving the dressing room and investigating the source of the noise, the door opens, revealing Marcus. “Hello, Miss _____. Mr V is ready to see you now,” the manager informs, an ambiguous smile gracing his face. A sense of anticipation washes over you, mingling with that of excitement and unease, a fuzzy feeling impregnating your abdomen. Taking a deep breath, you stand on shaky legs and wipe your clammy hands on the skirt of your dress before following the man out of the room.
Marcus leads you out of the dressing room, past the empty backstage and through the curtains leading towards the main stage; the mellifluous tune growing louder and louder with each step you take. The moment you cross the large, velvet canvas, however, you come to an abrupt stop, a sudden coldness diffusing through your core.
There, sitting at the Grand Piano, is Taehyung.
Your Kim Taehyung.
Frozen in place, your heart thundering within your eardrums, you gape at your lover, an expression of disbelief colouring your countenance.
In the dark silence of the club, the sight of him is effortlessly captivating. Dim lights softly flicker— reminiscent of waning candlelight—through intricately carved, glass chandeliers while spotlights beam lambent shafts of lutescent luminance upon his frame; the radiance a cascade of gilded satin draping his silhouette. Encased in the aureate halo—the bronze undertones of his complexion emphasised—his skin glimmers an intangible shade of gold, a juxtaposition to his darker, more captivating features like those of his umber tresses, his strong eyebrows, and his thick lashes. Though your most favourite features are currently hidden from you, the deep carob of his eyes concealed behind closed lids.
“Well, I’ll leave you two to discuss the contract. I will see you soon, Miss _____” Marcus addresses you before dismissing himself with a slight bow. Wrought in shock, however, you barely parse his words—the sounds buzzing through your mind like that of static—your entire attention focused on Taehyung. Despite his evident beauty, the sight of him is completely daunting—adorned in his perfectly-tailored suit and expensive tweed jacket, the outfit only serving to accentuate his size.
Hearing Marcus, the skilful way Taehyung’s fingers glide across the piano keys—with an almost mesmerising balletic grace— comes to an abrupt stop and as he stops playing, he turns to look at you. Instantly, the turbulence of his gaze jolts through you, his heavy, obsidian eyes focused solely on you. Rooted to the spot by his scrutiny, you barely find the strength to move.
It’s his eyes, you think, that made you fall in love with him.
Those inky depths, like that of a never-ending chasm, always seemed to ensnare you in their grasp. Whose tumultuous regard rattles your entire being, an earthquake ricocheting through your core; whose tender gaze soothes the very depths of your soul, the warmth of a fireplace that seeps through your skin and into your bones.
The very same depths you did not expect to be staring at you right now.
In the three years you’d known Taehyung, not once had you questioned exactly what he did. From the lavish way he lived, and the way money was never remotely a matter to him, you knew he was some form of a rich, successful businessman. However, the nature of that business was never your cause of concern. Personally, you never wanted to know what Taehyung’s job constituted. Not because you were worried he was some sort of shady mod boss, but more so because you worried that the moment you questioned him on his career, he’d question you on yours. A detail you had never disclosed to him.
In spite of what your friends and family thought, you are not a complete dreamer. You know that your ambitions are something few and far between achieve, you know your dream was close to an unattainable shot in the dark. You know because you had gone your entire life with people telling you. Your family, who in all their misguided worry for your future, openly told you to stop dreaming, to settle down in a job that you did not want but would make money in. Your friends, who lied through their teeth, their deceitful acceptance encouraging you but their looks of condescension beneath patronising smiles belying their true feelings. Your previous lovers, who callously mocked you for wanting to make it in Las Vegas of all places, sneering that your head was in the clouds and that you needed to drop down to reality.
You had heard it all.
Every cutting remark. Every incisive comment. Every piercing opinion. All of them lashing at you like that of trenchant knives, each one carving a new laceration between still recovering wounds. Until shame wrought your being, it’s unforgiving sting gnawing away at you piece by piece, till you were left with nothing but bitter regret that you had shared your dreams at all. But even then, even though their words pained you in ways you couldn’t articulate, you couldn’t give up the only thing you loved, the only dream you had. And instead, their words twisted a part of you, moulding it into something spiteful and vindictive—a vengeful desire to make them refute their claims and eat their words.
Thus, ever since, you were strategically remiss in speaking about your ambitions to anyone, let alone strangers. Even three years ago, when Taehyung had inquired your reasoning for becoming an escort, you had simply told him you were between jobs and that you were finding it hard to find one you enjoyed.
It had been a lie, of course, you’d already been struggling to land a permanent role for two years by then. However, you had only just met Taehyung then, and lying to him was inconsequential—you liked him enough, but as your client, you had no doubt that you’d never see him again. Except, that wasn’t the case. Because somehow, your relationship grew, from the flimsy, diaphanous thread of sugar daddy and sugar baby, into an enduring, unyielding tether that meant so much more. Yet, even as your relationship blossomed—your feelings stoked from smoking embers into a blistering inferno—you hadn’t found it in yourself to be honest with him. Not because you thought he would, but because the sheer thought of telling him, and him reacting in any remotely negative—or condescending way—caused your skin to crawl with despair and your heart to shatter within your chest.
Of course, you hadn’t meant to lie to him.
You’d always reasoned with yourself, assured yourself that you would tell him. When you had made something of yourself. When you had proven all the cynics wrong—that you could and would make it. When you could finally stop relying on Taehyung and he could be proud of you for all you achieved.
But, as the years passed, you continued struggling, and you continued lying to him out of fear and shame.
At least, until now. Now, when you finally have a golden chance.
A chance, that seems to be in the hands of Taehyung.
Your mind races a mile a minute as you try to process his presence and the fact that your Taehyung was Mr V, Velour’s club owner.
“Lyra Nightingale, huh? Is that an allusion to something? A certain nickname perhaps?” Taehyung says, his eyebrow cocking in amusement as he breaks the heavy silence. His words break you out of your stupor and sucking in a sharp breath, you look at him apprehensively.
“T-Tae? What’s going on?” you stammer, your voice cracking as you try to force the words from your throat. Unease stains your existence, a shiver tingling down your spine as static settles into your fingertips; the unexpectedness of the situation has you pulling your lower lip between your teeth.
Eyebrow raising further at your distance, “Are you going to stay there the entire time?” Taehyung questions. You chew your lip harder, and sensing your hesitance, Taehyung’s gaze softens. “Nightingale...” Taehyung softly calls to you, his voice sweet and full of tenderness. In spite of your trepidation, your heart flutters at the pet name.
You hadn’t always gone by Lyra Nightingale. In fact, before you had met Taehyung, you had simply used your name. However, a year into your relationship, Taehyung had realised just how much you tended to mindlessly sing—the canorous warbles and ariose crooning coming second nature to you—and as such, he’d soon started calling you Nightingale and Songbird, the former being the inspiration for your stage name. Taking a deep breath, you tentatively walk over to your lover, the harsh clacking of your heels resounding through the empty club, until you’re right beside Taehyung.
Forefinger picking at the nail of your thumb, you look down at him. “W-What are you doing here?” you ask, your voice a little more firm, but your words no less stilted. Standing up from his seat, Taehyung rises to his full height, his imposing figure effortlessly towering over yours. In one smooth motion, he wraps his arm around your waist before dipping down to place a soft kiss onto your lips. Instinctively, your chin tilts upwards, your mouth moving to meet his.
“You see... I wanted to spend my night with a certain Songbird,” Taehyung begins. He doesn’t pull away as he speaks, and each word he speaks has his soft petals brushing against yours. “However, since she was, apparently, meeting a friend,” he regards you with a pointed, knowing look, “I decided to check in on one of my clubs,” Taehyung explains.
Tightening his hold on your waist, he takes a step forward, moving you backwards until your back hits the frame of the Grand Piano. Then, he dips his head down further and nuzzling his nose into the exposed crook of your shoulder, he begins luxuriating your skin with his kisses. From the playful inflexion of his voice, you know he’s teasing you. And you know Taehyung well enough to know that his actions mean he’s not remotely upset.
Logically, you know this.
Yet, logic does nothing to satiate the guilt that rears itself at the back of your throat.
“Taehyung... Please let me explain, I didn’t mean to lie—” you begin to explain, your voice imploring. Taehyung simply hums, his lips tracking along the groove of your collarbone and towards the arc of your neck.
He nips at the supple skin of your throat, just where your throat meets your chest. “Later. I want you,” comes his gruff, fervid reply. Head lolling to the side, you further expose your neck to your lover, Taehyung taking the opportunity to graze his teeth along the delicate column. The rough sensation has you gasping, your hands automatically moving to clench the lapels of his tweed blazer.
“Wait— Taehyung... Let me— Ah. Explain first,” you attempt to argue, though, the breathless moans that fracture your words do nothing to convince your lover.
“Later,” Taehyung hisses once more, his teeth biting down harshly onto your neck. A choked cry escapes your lips, your fingers tightening around the fabric of his jacket. His lips quirk, and feeling him smirk knowingly into your skin, you let out a little huff. Nonetheless, ignoring the sound, Taehyung’s hands trace down your side, his palms skimming over your curves, until they land on your hips. “Up,” he all but growls, his fingertips digging into the plump flesh as he attempts to lift you onto the piano.
Chewing at your inner cheek, you hop onto the top surface, your movement aided by Taehyung’s actions. Once you’re securely seated, Taehyung’s hands drop to your thighs and slipping them under the slitted hem, he spreads your legs, stepping between them. The movement causes the shimmering material to fall apart, exposing your bare flesh to the cool air. The haze of lust descends upon you, its desirous fugue clouding your mind, even as you attempt to cling to your reason. Yet, as the pads of his fingers tantalising dance over the skin of your inner thighs, your willpower slowly crumbles.
“B-But the job,” you stammer, the words spilling from your throat through soughed mewls.
Without a hint of hesitation, “Is yours,” Taehyung replies matter of factly. Instantly, you freeze, the heat of your want cooling—as though awash with ice water.
“Wait, what?” you murmur in confusion.
“The job. It’s yours,” he answers, his lips moving to nibble on the soft flesh of your inner ear. The low, resonant sound of his voice reverberates through your eardrums, the baritone vibrations sending jolts of electricity right to your core. However, somehow managing to cling to your lucidity, you move your hands to cup his chin before forcefully facing him towards you.
“It’s mine?” you ask, your eyes boring into his.
“It’s yours,” Taehyung replies bluntly. Then, he attempts to move, his head aiming for your neck. Holding firm, however, you tighten your grasp on his chin.
“Is this because I’m sleeping with you?” you question. Somehow, you manage to utter the words without a single falter and hearing the stability, you internally cheer. Taehyung rolls his eyes.
“You’re decidedly not sleeping with me right now,” he pouts, his hand moving higher on your thigh. As he speaks, his lower lip juts out slightly; the sullenness deepened by the way your fingers bore into the hollows of his cheeks, causing the petal to protrude further.
Letting out a huff of annoyance, you glare at him. “You know what I mean, Taehyung,” you snap. The sharpness of your voice causes Taehyung to recoil, and eyebrows furrowing, he observes you. Taehyung knows you just as well as you know him, and instantly, he spots the inkling of insecurity hidden within your eyes. Features softening, he looks at you tenderly.
“______, it’s not. It’s because I think you’re genuinely talented. And if this is what you want to do, then I’ll support you no matter what. Whether that means here, at one of my clubs, or somewhere else,” he responds earnestly. For a moment, you scrutinise him—your eyes boring deep into his as you search for any sign, even the faintest ones, of a lie.
You find nothing but honesty.
Immediately, your heart flutters, a warm fuzziness pooling within the pits of your stomach.
“Really?” you ask, your hold on his chin slackening. Before you can even comprehend what’s happening, Taehyung takes advantage of your relaxed grasp and breaks free from it, his lips crash down onto yours in a heated, rough kiss.
The unexpectedness of his actions has you letting out a shocked gasp, Taehyung seizing the moment to slip his tongue between your lips. Within moments, it glides across yours, his melliferous flavour tinged with the astringent aftertaste of Dom Perignon dousing your palate. Letting out a little moan, your arms automatically move to curl around the broad expanse of his shoulders. His kiss is rough, his lips harshly moving against yours, the friction igniting an ardent heat deep within your abdomen. Liquid lust pools between your thighs, the uncomfortable, sticky heat causing your hips to shift.
As he practically devours you, his tongue lashing against yours with a fervent fury, Taehyung’s hands once again begin moving over your thighs. His digits grip the plump flush, the pads digging into you so hard you’re sure he’ll mar them with mauve fingerprints. Surreptitiously, his thumb moves, tracing indolent, yet harsh, circles into the skin of your inner thighs—dangerously close to your sex. Sensing an urgent zealousness in his touch, you grudgingly break away from his kiss. Not one to be distracted from his mission, however, Taehyung immediately latches onto your neck—lavishing the surface in hot, open-mouthed kisses that have your stomach somersaulting, your core quivering in want.
“Gods... What’s gotten into you?” you question. Heaving for air—Taehyung’s kiss having stolen the breath from your lungs—you attempt to satiate the burn in your lungs.
“I want you,” Taehyung responds. The dark husk to his voice causes your pussy to clench, a trickle of wetness slipping out of your inner walls before seeping into the gusset of your panties. Something clicks in the back of your mind, and frowning, you card your fingers into the textured locks at the nape of his neck and aimlessly play with them.
“Is this because I lied to you?” you ask, your voice small and uncertain. Taehyung shakes his head, his lips suckling the peak of your collarbone as he works to bruise it.
“No. I trust you. We’ll talk about it later,” he responds easily, reiterating his earlier sentiment. His unwavering faith in you has a heat radiating through your chest, a lightness overtaking you. Come what may, at least you knew Taehyung would hear you out and give you a chance to explain yourself. However, that didn’t explain his actions.
“Then why?” you prod. Taehyung huffs before mumbling something under his breath. Ears straining, you barely discern what he says. “What?” you urge. Again, Taehyung huffs.
“I didn’t like the way Isaac was looking at you,” he admits, louder this time. Then, after a brief pause, “Or anyone else for that matter,” he adds sourly. This time, you hear both him and the grouchiness in his voice.
A sense of recognition dawns upon you and as you realise that he’s simply jealous, you feel another weight lift off of your shoulders. So he’s really not angry.
“Really? You’re not mad in the slightest?” you clarify.
“Angel, the only thing I’m mad about right now is the fact that my cock is not buried balls deep in your tight cunt,” Taehyung candidly admits. Notwithstanding his lewd, blunt words, you exhale in amusement—finally understanding that he’s really not upset with you. Despite the rollercoaster of emotions that had consumed you today, you find a lightheartedness filling you, and giggling, you look up at him through the thick of your lashes.
“Hmmm. Maybe we should rectify that?” you all but purr.
Hearing the kittenish edge to your voice, “God, finally,” Taehyung breathes in relief. “I don’t think you’ve ever made me wait this long,” he continues after a pause. You simply roll your eyes, though, you can’t seem to form a verbal reply—knowing he’s correct.
Instead, “Come on, let’s find somewhere,” you say while attempting to hop off the piano. However, before you can move, Taehyung grips your thighs tightly, effectively shackling you in place.
“No. I’m going to fuck you right here,” he replies. Dark eyes—stormy with sin—glint above you, the abrupt change in his demeanour almost giving you whiplash. Dominance laces his voice, his words spit out with a wicked ferocity that has a trickle of wetness dripping out of you, further saturating your panties.
Vermeil heat stains your skin and looking around the deserted club, “Here? The security guards are still around,” you try to reason with him. Nonetheless, your words don’t stop one of Taehyung’s hands from slipping up to the apex of your thighs. Indurated knuckles brush against your panty-covered slit, and feeling them graze over the flimsy lace, you inadvertently let out a low groan.
“Marcus will have warned them not to disturb us,” Taehyung counters. Deliberately, Taehyung begins to stroke your folds, his knuckles tracing over the slightly tumid, slickening flesh. He’s barely touched you, yet your pussy already radiates a sweltering heat and he can already feel a small patch of wetness drenching your underwear.
“Okay... but we’ll ruin the piano,” you again attempt to argue. However, Taehyung is having none of it. With willful mercilessness, he forces the edge of his knuckles into your clit, harshly grinding them into the lace-clad bud. Jolts of pleasure streak through you, electrifying your nerve endings. Your head falls back in ecstasy, your mouth automatically parting in a dry, high-pitched mew as your legs spread further for his touch.
“You’re thinking too much. I’ll just buy a new one,” Taehyung backfires, a dangerous intonation tainting his usually sweet baritone. Then, while grinding the two knuckles into you in a slow, torturous rhythm, his teeth begin tracing the outer shell of your ear. “Or maybe... Maybe I’ll fuck you till you cum all over it, so that whenever Isaac sits here, he’ll smell how good I fuck you,” Taehyung continues with a threat, Isaac’s name tearing through his throat with a snarl.
A shiver runs down your spine at his lewdness. Desire coursing through your bloodstream, a flush of warmth blooms over your skin; the temperature increasing a couple of centigrade as your breath quickens. Rationally, you know you should convince Taehyung to move somewhere else—to take him into the privacy of the dressing room at the least—before he has his wicked way with you. Yet, with your logic veiled by arousal—Taehyung’s strumming the exact cords that set your being afire with need—you can’t bring yourself to care. Especially not with the way his knuckles continuously grind into your clit—the agonisingly slow touch driving you insane— and how his ineludible hardness presses into your inner thigh—the heat of his cock seeping into your own feverish skin through the tented bulge.
You need him. Right now.
Shifting on the piano, your thighs further fall apart. The movement causes the glittering material of your dress to shift up your hips, the loose fabric of the skirt pooling around you in swathes of shimmering gold. A moth to a flame, Taehyung’s eyes automatically drop to your sex, and despite the fact that he has yet to divest you of your panties, your cunt is almost completely bared—an erotic feast for his eyes. The lilac lace of your gusset has darkened to a deep violet, and as your arousal drenches the lace, it clings to your folds like a second skin—emphasising each and every pleat, furl, and crease of your petalled folds.
“Fuck,” Taehyung breathes out. Unable to stop himself, he hooks one of his fingers under the sodden material before sliding it to the side of your pussy. The two of you hiss at the action: you because your heated, sensitive cunt is at last exposed to the cool air, and Taehyung because of the way he has to physically peel it off your skin.
With your naked pussy now exposed to him, Taehyung takes a minute to leer at it. A slick sheen coats your flesh causing it to glisten under the saffron spotlights, while your folds are tumescent with need, your clit visibly throbbing under his tumultuous gaze. Spotting the way the ringed muscle of your entrance twitches—thick, filmy strings of your arousal dribbling out and down the seam of your ass—Taehyung lets out a low growl, the gravelly sound tremoring through the air. Fingers skimming over your cunt, he presses the pad of his thumb on the opening. Instantly, a loud squelching noise reverberates through the air, the sound of your wet pussy breaking through the silence.
“Fuck... Did you hear that?” Taehyung exhales, his breath labouring. Fascinated, Taehyung flexes his knuckle, the blunt of his nail threatening to enter into the trembling hole. However, instead of pushing his thumb inside of you, Taehyung opts to repetitively run it across your cunt in quick strokes; his ministration replicating the squelching noise with each brush. “You’re so fucking wet already,” he groans.
“Oh—Fuck me,” you keen, your hips bucking into Taehyung’s hand, the stimulation causing ripples of pleasure to flush through your veins. Above you, Taehyung chuckles lowly. Pulling his hand away from your cunt, his slips it further up your body, and hooking his fingers around the waistband of your thong, he slowly tugs it off of you.
Your hand falls to the piano, and bracing your weight on one arm, you lift your hips—allowing Taehyung to slip your panties down your hips, over your ass, and towards your thighs. Not wanting to waste a single moment, Taehyung divests you off of the flimsy piece of lace before holding it in his hand. The purple garment hangs from his fingers, the waistband dangling from the first knuckle of his forefinger. Looking at the skimpy fabric, he quirks an eyebrow.
“Now, who did you wear this for?” he questions. Huffing, you blow a stray curl out of your face.
“Well I was hoping I would see you later tonight... after I got some good news,” you admit, your eyes cast downward. Taehyung exhales thickly.
“Oh? Were you now?” he teases, and lifting your gaze, you lock eyes with him. Inky depths of bronzite glint with mischievous depravity, the corner of his lip curling into a derisive quirk. “Were you hoping I’d fuck you tonight, sweet Songbird? Hmmm?” he taunts, his voice dropping a couple of decibels. A shiver flits up your spine at the raspy intonation, and unable to lie to him, you hesitantly nod your head. Your answer has Taehyung’s smile widening into a wolfish, predatory grin—his teeth flashing in the light.
“Poor Isaac,” Taehyung scoffs. At the mention of the piano player, your eyebrows furrow. Why was he bringing him up again? Though, you don’t have to wait long for your answer. “To think, while he was blatantly staring at you... you were wet for my cock,” he revels.
“Okay, I wouldn’t go that far. I was more nervous about whether the owner of the club would like me or not,” you argue. Though, your words don’t seem to phase Taehyung. Rather, he smirks.
“Oh. He definitely likes you,” Taehyung purrs. “He likes you even better like this. With your legs spread as your cunt drips for him,” he persists, referring to himself in the third person.
The heat of embarrassment prickles at your skin. “Tae,” you whine.
“What do you want, Sweet Songbird?” Taehyung asks. As he speaks, he keeps his gaze fixated upon your pussy, the hand holding your underwear moving to your thighs once again. Just as you open your mouth to respond, you feel Taehyung caress your dewy folds with his knuckles, the lace of your panties tantalisingly skimming across your bare flesh. Your mouth falls apart in a low moan, the hand bracing your weight slipping a little further back.
“F-Fuck me,” you mew, looking at him pleadingly. However, with his attention otherwise preoccupied, he doesn’t notice your expression.
Instead, you watch as his eyes darken—almost impossibly so. The tempestuous depths—rife with lustful torridity—cloud even further with licentious desire, his pupils dilating—blackening his irises from a glimmering bronze to tenebrous obsidian. His knuckles glide down your slit, brushing over the pleated flesh of your sex and towards your entrance. Then, uncurling his digits, he presses his forefinger against the opening—the very tip slipping into your quivering orifice nail-deep. Gently, he begins stroking the flesh of your ringed muscles, tracing the outline of your pussy in indolent, maddening circles.
“Yeah, Angel? You want me to fuck your pretty little cunt?” he throatily intones. Inhaling sharply, your eyes rolling back at the way he teasingly strokes your pussy—his finger so close to fully penetrating you—you mew his name.
“Yes. Yes, please,” you urge as your hips thrust into his hand. All of a sudden, Taehyung plunges the appendage into you, the material of your thong hanging from it also slipping into you. The rough fabric of your underwear scrapes against your inner walls, the texture a harsh contrast against that of Taehyung’s smooth finger.
“God, Taehyung,” comes your choked cry. You watch as Taehyung’s eyes light up, an inkling of a devious notion colouring the murky pools. Abruptly, his finger retreats from your slit, only to return with a second, your core impaled with two digits, and your underwear wrapped around them. “Fuck! Tae,” you squeal, your legs snapping shut as you feel the cloth push into you. Without a moment's hesitation, Taehyung’s free hand darts out, his large palm curling around your left thigh and forcefully prying it open. As he spreads your legs out for him again, he drives his fingers deeper before curling them, his pads skilfully locating your sweet spot.
“Oh my—god,” you choke, your voice broken by a high-pitched groan. Your chest heaves, ragged breaths forced from your lungs as Taehyung tauntingly caresses the sensitive bundle of tissues inside of you.
“I want to get you wet,” Taehyung murmurs. Then, his digits receding from within you, he plunges them back inside—simultaneously shoving more of your thong inside of you. The friction of the abrasive material scraping against the pulsing flesh of your inner walls has you hissing, your abdomen trembling in desire. A gush of wetness trickles out of you, the arousal immediately soaked up by the material currently invading your cunt.
“I want to get you so wet you soak through this entire thong and still drip onto this piano,” Taehyung declares. You moan out his name, heat flashing across your being at his assertion. You’ve fucked Taehyung enough to know that once he’s settled upon something, the only way the two of you will stop before he’s accomplished his goal, is if you use your safeword.
“T-Taehyung,” you croak with a stammer. Your mew causes Taehyung to draw his fingers out of you carefully—so as not to accidentally pull out the thong stuffed into you—before staring at his handiwork. A small sliver of the purple cloth hangs out from your cunt— the thin, looped string of the waistband poking between your pulsing walls.
“Fuck, that’s hot,” he groans as he moves to cup your sex, his thumb softly stroking your clit. Taehyung draws his attention away from your cunt, finally locking eyes with yours.
“You’ll do that for me, won’t you, Little Nightingale? Get so wet you drench that tiny little thong and ruin this piano?” he purrs. While speaking, he pushes his thumb further into your clit and begins rolling it in slow, tight circles. Electric ecstasy rushes through your veins, the jolts setting your nerve endings afire with need.
“Yes. Fuck. Yes,” you respond ardent, your hips grinding into his fingers. With your panties stuffed inside of you, the emptiness of your core is prominent—your walls repetitively, vengefully, clenching around the intrusion as they weep molten lust to be filled by something more substantial than the feeble material of your thong.
Your eager willfulness has his chest tremoring in approval. The low, gravelly sound reverberates through the air, shooting through your eardrums and directly to your core—your cunt inadvertently clenching around your underwear.
“That’s my good girl,” he praises. You preen under his words, your chest fluttering in submissive happiness at his pleasure.
Thumb still toying with your clit, his head dips once again, and bending, he buries his face into the arc of your neck. Mouth latching onto your flesh, he suckles at your skin—his tongue darting out to whorl over the surface. Arching your back, you roll your head to the side, Taehyung taking the opportunity to scrape his teeth down the length, causing you to mewl out his name. Lips encircling the peak of your collarbone, Taehyung nibbles at the skin just above your bone, the stinging sensation causing you to hiss in ecstasy.
With his free hand, Taehyung traces the shape of your torso, his palm skimming over the contour of your waist, over the swell of your breast before it lands on the end of your scapula, where the strap of your dress rests. Finger slipping under the thin strap of your dress, he toys with the delicate, glittering fabric. Gently, he slips it further down your shoulder, his head moving to press a kiss to your flesh. The strap comes loose, the material clinging to your breast slackening from your flesh.
Immediately, Taehyung tugs the hem of your dress, pulling it down further before exposing your bare breast to his view. Groaning at the sight, he wraps his voluptuous lips around your nipple and swirling his tongue around the outline, he suckles at the bud. At the same time, the thumb on your clit moves—Taehyung using the tip of his nail to gently map its shape. A cry of pleasure spills from your throat, your nails scratching the varnished surface of the Grand Piano. Teasingly, Taehyung whorls his velvet appendage around the hardened peak, alternating between gently rolling it between his teeth and flicking it with the tip of his tongue.
Thrums of pleasure swirl within your abdomen—your lust-driven fugue heightened between Taehyung’s hand playing with your clit and his mouth suckling at your nipple— your womb quivering as you feel yourself grow wetter with want; though, the panties inside of you quickly soak up your juices.
“Oh... Taehyung,” you sigh, one of your hands moving wrap around his neck, your digits playing with the hair at his nape. Without any warning, Taehyung bites onto your nipple, a mix of pain and pleasure jolting through you at his action, your fingers curling as you dig your nails into his flesh. A low moan spills from your throat, your back arching as you force your chest further into his face. Against your breast, Taehyung smirks, and the tip of his silken appendage circling the bud again one last time, he releases it with an audible ‘pop’.
“Come on Little Nightingale, get wet like the depraved little whore I know you are,” he coos, the hand pressed to your clit beginning to move once more. The sweet, almost honeyed intonation of his voice is severely juxtaposed by the harshness of his degradation. In response, you suck a shallow breath, your hips surging forward as you push your bare cunt into his hand.
“Please,” you keen. The hand pressed to your clit begins moving once more. Thumb forcibly pushing against the bundle of nerves, he feels the way it viciously throbs.
“Please, what?” he prompts.
“Make me cum,” you reply, your words high-pitch than you’d expected.
“You wanna cum?” he goads, causing you to nod eagerly. Taehyung exhales in amusement.
“I’ll make you cum... If you touch yourself for me. Show me how much you want me to fuck you; how much you want to cum,” Taehyung commands. Rough dominance overshadows his voice, his commanding presence causing goosebumps of desire to prickle your flesh.
Without wasting another moment, you splay your legs wider apart and slip your hand between your thighs, only to cry out in bliss when your fingers come into contact with your pulsating clit. Knees trembling, you fixate your gaze onto Taehyung—the burnt umber of his depths conscientiously tracking the movement of your hand. Tentatively, you stroke the bundle of nerves, the pad of your middle finger tracing the outline of the swollen nub, your breath turning ragged as shocks of bliss surge through you.
“Fuck. That’s it,” Taehyung urges above you. Within the confines of his trousers, his cock turns painfully hard—his indurated erection straining against the material of his slacks. Unable to take it anymore, Taehyung drops his hands to the waistband, the motion drawing your attention. You watch as Taehyung’s fingers—long, and slender—expertly unfasten both his belt and the button, the way his digits move causing your own pupils to blacken even further.
Gaze fixated, you follow the way he slips his trousers down his hips and to the tops of his thighs, just enough to easily free his cock from its prison. The sight of his angry, leaking shaft has your mouth running dry—the unexpected sight causing you to swallow thickly. He’d obviously decided to forgo his boxers today. Though, as you stare at his dick, you can’t find it in yourself to complain.
The shaft itself is absurdly long, so long that as it stands proudly to attention, the bulbous tip of his cockhead sits past his belly button. And that wasn’t to say anything about the sheer girth of it; you’d always needed at least two hands to properly grip the entire circumference. Viciously, his cock throbs—dusky veins of mauve bulging as blood pumps towards his member, the pulsating vessels drawing more attention to his monstrous size. In the soft glow of the stage lights—the flavescent shafts of light focused exactly onto the piano—the crown of his cock glistens—the leaking surface beaded with his precum.
With his cock finally freed, Taehyung lets out a hiss of reprieve and moves to grip the base of his cock, his hand large enough to wrap around the entirety of its girth. Hardened shaft firmly in his grip, he languorously begins pumping the length, his palm moving to curl around his cockhead before he continues palming his dick, using his own wetness—as well as the remnants of yours that stain his digits—as lube. The low timbre of his voice resonates through the air, a guttural groan emanating from his throat as his cock is finally stimulated.
Your cunt throbs in need, and shifting, you move to press your feet on the piano keys—a discordant symphony echoing through the air as your stilettos press the notes. In your new position, your knees bent as your feet brace against the piano—you’re able to access your cunt easier. Middle finger trailing through your slit, you slide it between the sticky folds and run it up and down your sex a couple of times, your ministration coating the length in a thin film of your own arousal. Then, you press it back to your clit, using your wetness to slick the bud.
“Mmmm... That’s right, Angel. Play with your clit,” Taehyung orders, the purposely baritone inflexion causing your thighs to twitch with pleasure.
Gaze honed in on each other’s sex, you follow the other’s movements—Taehyung watching the surreptitious way you toy with your clit, your panty-stuffed opening trembling around the garment, whilst you watch the teasing way Taehyung’s palm strokes his cock in long swipes, his cockhead leaking pearlescent drops of precum all over itself. For a moment, your eyes blur with euphoria, each rub of your clit causing the knot of lust within your stomach to intensify, the sensation morphing from a dull ache into a torturous sear. Eyelids threatening to shut, you willfully force them to remain open—too engrossed in the way Taehyung fists his cock. Noting your half-lidded, fervent gaze, Taehyung chuckles darkly.
“Fuck. Do you like watching me wank, Little Songbird? Hmmm?” he asks with a purr. You whimper in response, your fingers quickening their pace as you work your clit over and over again. Pure, unadulterated ecstasy begins to flood your veins and feeling the wave of your orgasm approach, you mewl out his name. Seeing the way your toes curl, your thighs quivering intermittently, Taehyung growls. “Yeah. I know you do. Filthy fucking slut. You love the way I fuck my hand, don’t you? Wish it was your tight, wet little cunt instead, don’t you?” he taunts. Once more, you whine in affirmation.
Taehyung’s gaze drops from where you toy with your clit down to your panty-stuffed hole. Instantly, the sight of your tumescent sex has him letting out a low, throaty groan. The small loop of fabric hanging out of you is no longer the pastel shade of lilac it once was. Rather, it’s a deep shade of violet. Your arousal leaks out of you in thick rivers, your cunt so wet now that you’ve completely saturated the material stuffed inside you; your underwear no longer about to absorb any more of your arousal. Thick, filmy strings of it ooze out of your cunt: some of the slickness dripping down the seam of your ass, others dangling in the air before dropping onto the piano keys.
“Fucking yes. That’s it. You’re so fucking wet,” Taehyung mutters, his hand squeezing his cock as he pumps it harder over his cock. Subconsciously—spellbound by the sight—his hand move, his fingers dipping towards your soaked entrance. Languidly, he loops his finger through the waistband of your underwear, and once it's hooked around his digit, he slowly begins tugging it out of you.
The rough material shifts inside you, and feeling the friction of the rough lace rubbing over your internal walls—Taehyung’s ministration stimulating your erogenous zones—your mouth falls open. A long, deep moan spills out of your chest, your eyes rolling into the back of your skull with pleasure. Between Taehyung unstuffing your cunt from your thong, and the way your own fingers continue to rapidly toy with your clit, your orgasm soon ricochets through you. Skin flashing with heat, pleasure surges through your bloodstream, white-hot ecstasy causing your eyes to blur with pleasure.
With one final stroke of your clit, your jaw slackens and a cry of bliss emanates from your throat. Hurtling off of the edge of rapturous bliss, you dive headfirst into your orgasm—your thighs quaking violently as your back contorts viciously. Yet, even as your muscles tremble from the unadulterated pleasure that consumes you, your fingers continue stroking your clit—your mind lost in pleasure. Though, your ministration only intensifies your rapturous euphoria. Tongue-tied with lust, you inarticulately moan Taehyung’s name.
“Fuck, you’re so hot,” Taehyung praises, his eyes fixated on the way the pulsing muscles of your cunt force out the rest of your underwear, the sodden material darkened, and heavy with your cum as it hangs from his finger.
Below Taehyung, you gasp for air—your muscles imperceptibly quivering from the aftershocks of your orgasm. Gradually, you float down from your high, and as the post-orgasmic haze dissipates, you feel your mind clear. Opening your eyes—and briefly wondering when they’d shut—you look at Taehyung through your thick of lashes.
“Fuck me,” you murmur breathlessly. Taehyung quirks an eyebrow, his eyes roving over your figure. Shuffling forward—as much as he can—he nestles himself between your still quaking thighs.
“Yeah, Sweet Songbird? You want me to fuck you?” Taehyung coos.
Whilst taunting you, Taehyung grips the base of his shaft tighter before slapping it against your quivering hole. A loud, wet ‘thwack’ echoes through the air, the stiff heaviness of his length smacking right against your cunt. Feeling the bulbous crown strike directly onto your entrance, you let exhale heavily, your breath ragged. Below his cockhead, your cunt achingly clenches around nothing—as though it were eagerly anticipating its imminent invasion—the emptiness of your pussy growing more apparent. Seeing the way your hole clenches around nothing, the inner walls closing around themselves—inadvertently pushing out another gush of your wetness—before gaping once again, Taehyung hisses.
“Desperate fucking cockslut,” Taehyung all but snarls, his chest rumbling with the low timbre. Powerless under the eroticism, he smacks his cockhead directly onto your entrance once again—his eyes darkening at the salacious sight of your wetness, the sticky strings attaching onto the seam of his crown from your cunt. “Dirty, messy whore. Look at how wet you are,” Taehyung hisses. You whimper at the harshness of his words, your back arching as you thrust your hips into his.
“Taehyung—Please,” you plead.
Chuckling lowly, “Such a fucked out little slut,” Taehyung derisively sneers. Nonetheless, despite the crudity of his words, the next thing you know, he’s angling his cock to press the very tip against the quivering ring of muscles. Then, with purposely teasing strokes, he circles his head around your oozing entrance—relishing in the way beads of his precum stain your flesh, mingling with your own arousal.
“Please,” you beg once again. Tingles of pleasure flitter through you at his action, and feeling the hardened crest of his cock, your honeyed hole clamps viciously—a futile attempt to swallow his cock. The clenching of your pussy is clearly visible to Taehyung’s eye, the movement accompanied by a trickle of arousal. He watches the rivulet run down your ass, only for it to dribble onto the piano in a thick droplet—mixing with the small puddle that stains the keys.
“Fuck. Look at this messy little hole. You’re dripping everywhere. But we can get you even wetter, can’t we, Angel?” Taehyung asserts. Before you can respond—because, really, was it even possible for you to be wetter than you are now?—Taehyung pushes his cockhead into your entrance. Pressure builds up against the tight muscles, and despite your evident wantonness, the sheer girth of him causing your entrance to protest and inadvertently tense.
Willfully, you force your muscles to relax, and with a sudden, audible pop, the thick, mushroom-tip of Taehyung’s cock squeezes into you. A strained cry of ecstasy tears through your throat, tears of pleasure misting your eyes as you feel the addictive sear of his thickness stretching you. Intentionally slow, Taehyung pushes his cockhead into you—forcing you to feel the way it splits your walls and drawing out the pleasurable burn that ripples through your cunt—until eventually, he impales the entirety of his crown into you; stopping just at the seam of where the neck meets the shaft. With his head sufficiently buried into you, the entirety of it wrapped within your soft, velvet walls, Taehyung stops.
Feeling him pause, you let out a low groan of displeasure. “M-More,” you stammer out, your hips writhing and your pussy contracting in an effort to take him deeper into you. Nonetheless, moving your sodden underwear to the hand still wrapped around his length, he uses his now free hand to grip your hips—using his strength to hold you in place.
“Not yet. Make my cock want it. Show me how much your greedy, desperate fucking cunt wants to be filled up with my cock,” Taehyung orders.
Already knowing what he wants, you once again begin touching your clit—your muscles flinching as faint tingles of overstimulation shoot through the hardened bundle of nerves and up to your core. Still, you roll the pulsating nub under your digits, your fingers moving in slow, tight circles. Simultaneously, you voluntarily clench your cunt, the muscles clamping around the rigid intrusion. Feeling you squeeze his cockhead, Taehyung hisses through gritted teeth.
Lost in the pleasure of the way your pussy squeezes his cock, Taehyung wraps your sodden thong around his cock, and using it as a makeshift cocksleeve, he begins palming at his heavy length once again. Lazily, he strokes his pulsating member, his hand intermittently squeezing it whenever he gets to the top of his shaft—right where his cockhead is buried deep into you. Wet sounds of sex fill the air, your underwear making a lewd noise from the way it slides over his cock, your cum soaking the fabric coating Taehyung’s shaft.
Hearing the crude sounds, you let out a whimper, and eyes dropping down you aim your gaze as where he fists his cock and how the crown stretches you out. Pupils dilating in lust, you whine once again. You’d give anything for him to bury it deeper inside of you. Plagued by the salaciousness of the sight—the thick veins wrapped around his shaft pulsing in tandem to his hand—your movements become more frantic, your fingers toying with your clit harder; each motion a little quicker, a little more desperate than the last.
“F-Fuck. T-Taehyung,” you croon, his name falling from your lips breathlessly. When your walls constrict around his head particularly hard, Taehyung’s jaw clenches, a strained, throaty groan resounding through the air.
“Gods, Little Songbird. You’re squeezing my head so tight. This tight, pretty cunt is aching to be filled by me, isn’t it?” he taunts. Under him, you nod your head, his name falling from your lips again. Lifting one his hand from your hip, Taehyung cups your free breast, and swiping his thumb over the nipple, he drags them under the pad—the other still leisurely stroking his shaft. All of a sudden, Taehyung pinches the sensitive bud, twisting it between his thumb and forefinger whilst pulling it. A sharp sting of pain shoots through you, a dry sob spilling from your throat.
“You love this, don’t you? You love it when I’m rough with you. Nothing gets you as wet as this,” Taehyung jeers. Roughly tugging your nipple again, his palm pumping his cock faster, he continues his derision. “Look at what a depraved whore you are. Getting all wet and horny for me here, dripping all over this piano. You’ve soaked it, stained it,” he intones with a hiss. The timbre of his voice deepens, lowering by a few decibels and turning into a rich, raspy husk. Taking a deep breath, Taehyung lets out a hum of pleasure. “Even from here, I can smell you, how drenched your cunt is. Now what will Isaac think? When he sits here to play, when he tries to fantasise about fucking you, but all he can smell is your cunt and how wet you were for me?”
“Oh god... Taehyung,” you whine, your breath laboured as the knot of ecstasy within your abdomen begins tensing. Towering above you, Taehyung feels the first signs of his own orgasm, his balls clenching intermittently.
“I’m going to cum inside of you, Sweet Nightingale. I’m going to fill you with my seed and let it drip out of you. All over these keys. So that Isaac will know what we’ve done here. So that when he smells your cunt, he’ll smell my cum claiming it. Maybe that way he’ll know not to look at what’s mine,” Taehyung jeers.
The possessiveness in his voice ignites your orgasm, sudden pleasure rebounding through your being. It comes before you can anticipate—or even comprehend it—sending you careening off of the precipice and straight into bliss. Unrestrained ecstasy consumes you, the tide of your orgasm surging through your entire body, setting it aflame with pleasure. For a second time that night, you cum, a wail tearing through your throat, the muscles straining under the sound. Engulfed by rapture, you lose yourself in the fog of your climax, your walls constricting painfully and erratically around Taehyung’s cockhead.
Feeling you cum around him, Taehyung hisses, his head falling back. He clenches his hand tighter, the squelching sound of your wet underwear resound through the air, before he pumps his hand furiously—his own climax fast approaching. Between the rough lace of your sodden panties, the fast strokes of his fist, and your viciously contracting walls, Taehyung soon follows behind you. With a gravelly roar, Taehyung moans your name—his head swelling inside you as he cums.
Spurt after spurt of his hot cum spills inside you, just at the entrance to your cunt, where his thick seed paints your walls. Feeling the warmth of his essence fill you, you let out a small whine as you slowly come down from your elated high. Moving his hand to the neck, right by where his shaft is embedded inside of you, he rhythmically squeezes—pumping as much of his cum as he can into you. Ragged breaths fill the club as both you and Taehyung take a moment to relish in the blissfully aftermath of your orgasm. However, even though it’s your second orgasm of the night—and you need a little more time to recover—Taehyung is almost immediately moving.
Cock still erect, he retreats his head from you, eliciting a whine from you when you feel your sensitive walls stretch around him. The moment he’s out of you, Taehyung gently clamps his head—squeezing the remnants of his seed out of his shaft and onto your flesh, a few drops painting your clit and folds, while the rest pools around your cum-filled entrance. With his cockhead no longer plugging you, you feel his cum rush out of you—the thick essence oozing out of your slightly gaping hole and onto the puddle that stains the piano. Taehyung’s chest tremors in approval, and dropping your panties—the drenched fabric landing with a wet thwack onto the piano, he places middle and forefinger onto either side of your sex. Parting them in a ‘v’ shape, the folds peeling apart under the motion. Bearing your swollen sex in its entirety, Taehyung hum in pleasure.
“Push my cum out,” comes his domineering demand. Vermeil heat claws up your skin, embarrassment flushing through you. Nonetheless, you do as he says, flinching when your sensitive walls close around nothing—your muscles voluntarily contracting as you force his seed out. Thick globs of his cum pour out of you, his semen mixing with yours as it drips out of you. Repeatedly, you clench your cunt, Taehyung mesmerised by the way the ringled muscles move, each time they tighten forcing another thick bead of his cum out.
“Fuck yeah. I love the way my cum looks on you. Whether it’s on your pretty face or tits, on your delicious cunt, or inside that tight little hole,” Taehyung murmurs. As he speaks, he delicately runs his fingers against your entrance, coating the length in a mix of both your cum.
His lewd words cause heat to prickle your spine, and this time, when your pussy clenches, its involuntary—his seed dribbling out of you and directly onto his fingers. Feeling the warmth glaze his digits, abruptly, he thrusts two of them into you. As they stretch you out, you whine in pleasure, your stomach quivering with lust. Stopping once he’s knuckle deep, Taehyung curls his fingers, watching with rapt fascination as his cum is displaced by his appendages, more of his seed oozing out of you and onto the piano below. Languidly, he pulls them out before plunging back in; a heavy moan emanates from your throat, your cunt spasming around his digits. He thrusts them into you, playing with your cum-filled cunt while also testing the pliancy of your walls. Then, pulling his fingers out, he gently traces the gaping hole.
“Please fuck me. Want your cock,” you slur—your tongue loosed by elated bliss—as you stare up at him through large, pleading eyes. At the same time, your hand moves to wrap around his cock, the velvet hardness causing the two of you to shiver in anticipation. Taehyung exhales heavily, and unable to hold back anymore, he pats your thigh.
“Hop off and turn around,” he orders. Perking up at his command, you quickly shuffle to do as he says. However, as soon as you feet touch the ground, your knees buckle under your weight. Swiftly turning around—your back now facing Taehyung—you brace yourself on the piano, catching yourself before you fall. Behind you, Taehyung chuckles when he sees your falter.
“Have I already gotten you so fucked out you can’t even stand straight?” he teases. Nose wrinkling, you open your mouth to respond. However, before you can say anything, Taehyung is placing his large palm on your hip. “Bend over. Show me your ass,” he lowly orders. As he speaks, his lips brush the outer shell of your ear, the deep timbre reverberating through your eardrums.
The hairs on the back of your neck stand on edge, but still, you obediently heed his command. Spreading your hands on the piano, you arch your back and stick your ass out for him, a grimace colouring your features when the scent of your arousal deepens—your face close to the piano’s surface. Taehyung wasn’t kidding when he said Isaac would be able to smell your cunt. Happy with your submissiveness, Taehyung hums in approval. The hand on your hip moves down to your thigh, and slipping his hand into the slit, he roughly pushes your skirt aside, bearing your bare ass to him.
Without a word of a warning, he suddenly spanks the plump flash. “Obedient little slut,” he praises. The unexpected impact causes you to squeal, your hips bucking at the searing pain that flares across your flesh. Tingles of pleasure accompany the sting, your cunt clenching around nothing as you let out an inarticulate mew. Taehyung smirks at your reaction, and captivated by the way your soft, plump cheek ripples under his harsh ministration, he repeats the action.
A loud slapping sound resounds through the air, another flash of pain spreading along your flesh. Letting out a whimper, your back contorts further, your hips pushing into his hand. Seeing the way you prostrate yourself to the pain he lavishes on your body, Taehyung growls. Emboldened by your submission, he spanks you once more—this time, as hard as he physically can. As soon as his palm violently lands onto your ass, you howl, the pain blending with ecstasy. Responsively, the inner walls of your cunt constrict around nothing, emphasising the prominent emptiness in your core.
“T-Tae,” you beg, his name falling from your lips in a breathless plea.
Again, Taehyung brings his hand down onto your fleshy globes—just as hard as the previous one. But, instead of pulling away, he immediately moves to slip his fingers between the seam. Deftly, his fingers stroke down the cleft off your ass, over the twitching back entrance, and down towards your dripping hole. Slotting his fingers into your sodden folds, he begins stroking the length through them—relishing in the way his fingers immediately turn slick, glazed by your thick arousal and his sticky cum.
Moving his fingers to tease your aching hole, “Get your knee up, I wanna watch the way my cock stretches you out,” he commands.
Again, you scramble to adhere to his command. You lift your right leg, and bending it at the knee, you settle it onto the piano keys. For a second time that night, a cacophonous string of notes resound through the air. Though the dissonant sound is louder this time, your mounted leg striking more keys than when your feet had pressed to them. In your new position, your left legs strains—the entirety of your weight braced onto it. Yet, even as your muscles pull, you can’t seem to care, your entire being too wired as you anticipate the breach of Taehyung’s cock into your cunt.
“Mmm. So pretty. So obedient,” Taehyung hums. The hand stroking your cunt shifts upwards, and flexing his digits, he cups one of your ass cheeks in his large palm. Gripping the flesh, he pulls it apart—your cheek spreading under the action as Taehyung exposes more of your asshole and cunt to his gaze.
Out of the blue, you feel a glob of warm wetness fall right onto your open cunt. Realising Taehyung had just spit on your pussy, you mew his name, indulging the way it glides down your flesh and into your quivering hole, mixing with the concoction of cum that already smears it. Behind you, Taehyung all but purrs, his gaze fixated on the salacious wave your entrance trembles, the muscles sealing on itself as it swallows his spit before gaping open once again.
Hand gripping the hilt of his hardness, Taehyung slaps his shaft against your sodden folds—loud, smacking sounds echoing through the air. Sliding his head through your slit, it strokes it around your entrance, relishing in the way your leaking entrance glazes his cockhead in a sloppy sheen of both your cum and his spit. The lewd squelching of Taehyung playing with your entrance has your skin flushing with heat, and hips squirming, you moan in desperation.
“Want your cock,” you murmur. At your words, Taehyung angles his top at your quivering entrance, only to stop for a moment as he revels in the size difference between his thick, throbbing cockhead and your tight, pulsating cunt.
“Mmmmm... Can’t wait to stretch out your little hole. I’m going to fuck you open, Little Nightingale,” Taehyung sneers. That’s your only warning.
The next thing you know, Taehyung is forcibly pushing his cockhead into you. For a second time that night, pressure builds up at your cunt. However, unwilling to let up, Taehyung suddenly thrusts forward—hard. Abruptly, the bulbous head forces its way inside you, splitting your walls around the absurd girth and causing sharp stings of pain to shoot through your cunt. Your mouth falls open in a dry, choked cry and you curl into yourself as your cunt protests the stretch.
“T-Taehyung,” you gasp, your chest heaving as you inhale deeply—a futile effort to suppress to painful, yet pleasurable, way his cock pulls open your inner ways.
With no word of a warning, Taehyung draws his hips back, retreating the few centimetres of his immense length sheathed into you. However, just as you moan in dissatisfaction, he impales every single inch of his cock into you—from the crest of his head to the very bottom of his shaft—in one smooth thrust. Instantly, you feel his cockhead batter the soft walls of your cervix, the force of his thrust causing you to jerk forward. You cry out his name, the pain of the piano edge digging into your hip mixing with the ache of his crown pressed hard against your cervix.
“Ah- Fuck, Taehyung,” you cry, your eyes welling with tears of ecstasy. The silken flesh of your inner wall smarts, your muscles clenching violently around Taehyung as they try to expel the unrelenting invasion. Accompanied by the vicious contractions, is a gush of wetness—Taehyung hissing as he feels you drench his cock.
“That’s it, Sweet Songbird. Your cunt takes my cock so well,” Taehyung praises.
“M-Move. Fuck me,” you urge, despite the pain. Or perhaps, in spite of it—the pain Taehyung reaps on your body an addictive sensation that only further ignites your wanton desire.
Taehyung chuckles darkly, “You asked for it, Angel” Once again, Taehyung slides out of you—incredibly slowly, deliberately forcing you to feel every vein and ridge of his cock as it slides against the tight cavern of your cunt. “Sing for me,” he commands. Then, he’s once again impaling you with his cock.
Sobbing in pleasure, your nails scratch against the varnished surface of the Grand Piano, your head dropping to the cool wood—Taehyung fucking you with reckless abandon, his punishing pace driving you forward and into the piano with each hard thrust. Behind you, Taehyung hands move to tightly grip your ass, the pads of his fingertips clawing into your plump flesh as he uses them as leverage—vehemently sheathing his cock into you. Each and every jerk of his hips has his immense length spreading your walls— the velvet shaft dragging flat against innermost nerves and setting them afire with ecstasy.
“Ah-Ah, Taehyung. Fuck, Taehyung,” you cry, his name hoarsely ripped from your throat with every one of his brutal thrusts. “Please. Please. Please,” you beg. Though, as desirous lust clouds your mind, your head swimming with unadulterated pleasure, you don’t really know what you’re begging for.
Encouraged by your moans, Taehyung somehow increases his pace, and soon, he’s practically jackhammering into you. With each of his thrusts, your cunt scrapes against the piano—the sharp and flat keys intermittently digging into your clit— and your hips propel into the wooden frame, the sanded edge ramming into your flesh, both sensations sending jolts of electric pleasure up your spine. A high-pitched keen spills from your through, intermingling with your gasps and moans and that of Taehyung’s ragged groans of pleasure.
“That’s it, Angel. Moan my name. Tell me who’s fucking you this good,” Taehyung urges.
“You are. Just you,” you respond. Involuntarily, your walls tighten around him, and as the movement emphasises the size of his cock, you sob. “H-Hard. W-Wanna c-cum,” you stutter while pushing back into him. You’ve already cum twice tonight. Yet, as your clit grinds into the black keys, and Taehyung fills you to your limit—his head battering your cervix with each thrust—you’re desperate for another one, wanting nothing more than to fall apart with bliss as Taehyung relentlessly pounds into you.
Hearing your plea, Taehyung scoffs. Suddenly, he spanks your ass again, and hissing in pleasure, your hips surge back into his, his cock forcing itself deeper into you. “You’re already crying like a depraved, fucked out little cockslut but you want it harder?” Taehyung taunts. You whine and eagerly nod your head.
“Want it. W-Want it. Please. Fuck me,” you slur back, your words garbled by bliss. Behind you, Taehyung hisses through gritted teeth. Then, bending over you, the new position pushing him even deeper somehow, he bites down on your earlobe.
“Then take it. I’m going to ruin you, Angel. Fuck you so hard that whenever you sit here, whenever you sing here, all you’ll remember is my cock buried into your cunt, and how hard I made you cum all over this piano,” Taehyung asserts. Then, somehow, by some ungodly miracle, his pace increases further. As he viciously slams into you, his immense girth pulling your walls apart, your eyes widen. Nails scratching against the piano—hard enough to lacerate the surface in claw marks—you sob his name.
Between the roughness of Taehyung’s thrust—the bulbous head grinding against the sensitive bundle of tissues inside you, before plunging into your cervix—and the way your clit continuously presses against the black piano keys—the ebony-wood of the notes burrowing into and sliding across your pulsating, hardened bud—you feel your orgasm swiftly build for a third time that night. The fog of euphoria nips at the edges of your being, the dull heat within your stomach rapidly intensifying into a searing inferno with each of his thrusts. Even that pain in the back walls of your cunt—where Taehyung viciously batters the entrance to your womb—and the sharp ache of the piano edge burrowing into your hips—hard enough to bruise—can’t seem to suppress your climax.
The muscles of your throat tighten at the pleasure, and in an effort to lubricate them, you swallow thickly. Behind you, Taehyung continues unyielding plunging his cock into you—his pace never seeming to falter, each thrust dragging against all of your erogenous zones. Climbing higher and higher to the precipice of rapture, your breath labours.
“C-Cumming,” you gasp.
“Fuck, same. Cum. Cum for me, Little Nightingale,” Taehyung urges. As he speaks, he bites down harshly onto your earlobe. At the same time, one of his hands curling around your waist, and slipping it into the apex of your thighs, he pinches your clit.
With that one action, you suddenly hurtle off of the edge. Intense, white spots blind your vision, and as the blistering heat consumes you, you feel your blood bubble with rapturous ecstasy. Your eyes screw shut, the tears that pooled within them flowing freely down your cheeks as you howl out Taehyung's name. Forehead flat against the piano, you sob repeatedly, your cunt contracting almost painfully this time. Even as you wail in pleasure, Taehyung refuses to stop. Rather, he continues hammering into you—encouraged by the way your walls clamp around him.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck, fuck” Taehyung grunt.
Feeling your cunt tighten into a vice-like grip, Taehyung groans deeply. He falls forward, one of his hands falling to bring against the piano, while the other moves from your clit to your womb—his fingers splaying flat across your lower abdomen. Pinned under him, you have no choice but to feel the entire force of his thrust, the thick of his cock forcing your rippling, orgasming walls open with each motion. Then, all of a sudden, with one last plunging thrust, Taehyung sheathes his cock as deep into you as possible, and with his cockhead flush against the entrance to your womb, he cums.
His cock swells inside of you and feeling his throbbing member enlarge somehow, you whine his name. Only for the high-pitched keening to morph into a throat moan when you feel him cup deep inside of you. Rope after rope of his thick seed spills inside you, shooting deep into your sensitive inner walls and bathing them white with his seed. The warmth of his semen floods your insides, and squirming under him, you relish in the way he fills you up, the sensation eliciting a sigh from your lips.
“Gods,” Taehyung breathes out, and nuzzling his face into the arc of your neck, he inhales deeply. The two of you still, the sound of heavy, choppy breaths filling the silence as the two of you attempt to catch your breath. With his cock still buried inside you, you feel it slowly turn flaccid. Despite the limpness of his shaft, Taehyung refuses to move—instead, revelling in the way your walls intermittently spasm around his soft member, the warmth of your cunt cradling it.
“I love you,” he murmurs. His voice is low, barely audible over your heavy breaths. Yet, with how close his lips are to your ears, you hear him as clear as day. Stiffening under him, your entire body freezes. Your heart picks up within your chest, the rapid pounding more from anxious excitement than your sexual activities.
“W-What? Taehyung? What did you say?” you stammer, barely able to comprehend his words. Behind you, Taehyung places a tender kiss to the nape of your neck, his nose nuzzling into your hair.
“I love you, _____,” he repeats, his voice louder and firmer this time. Happiness blooms within your chest, and shifting, you attempt to turn around. Momentarily, Taehyung moans in protest. However, undeterred, you push him again—only to wince slightly when his cock slips from your raw inner walls. Ignoring the stings of pain, you turn around and look at him incredulously—your eyes searching his face for any hint of a lie.
“Do you mean that? Are you lying to me?” you all but interrogate, a small part of you unable to believe his confession. Taehyung smiles softly, and dipping his head forehead, he places a soft kiss on your lips.
“I love you. I love you. I love you,” Taehyung repeats, each sentiment punctuated with another kiss. Then, brushing his nose against yours, “I’ll say it as many times as it takes for you to believe me,” he continues. A fuzzy warmth flushes through you, butterflies blossoming within the pits of your stomach. But, before you can truly give into your happiness, you pause.
“But, what about me being your sugar baby?” you ask. You don’t think Taehyung would confess his feelings for you, only to then keep you as merely a sugar baby. Still, you had to be sure. You no longer want to be uncertain about your future with Taehyung. You want him. Wholly and unconditionally.
“Ah. Actually, the succession of your job application here is conditional on that,” Taehyung responds. The sudden business-like tone causes your stomach to sink to its pit. He’d admitted you had the job—not because you were sleeping with him, but because he genuinely believed in your dreams. Had that changed? All of a sudden?
Chewing at the inner flesh of your cheeks, you regard him through guarded eyes. “What condition?” you prompt. Abruptly, Taehyung’s features break out into a large smile, his signature boxy grin gracing his countenance.
“It’s conditional on you no longer being my sugar baby. I love you, _____. I want us to be more. I want us to mean more,” Taehyung professes. With that, the zealous delight you’d suppressed in your need to be certain consumes you. Unable to stop yourself, your arms shoot out and you wrap them around Taehyung’s broad shoulders.
“Yes! Yes! Yes! Gods, yes. I love you. I love you so much,” you declare through exuberant giggles. Above you, Taehyung’s hands fall to your hips, and pulling you closer, he dips his head down and captures your mouth with his.
It’s a bit ridiculous. How happy you are that is, over the change in your relationship. Even as Taehyung’s cum drips out of you and onto your thighs. Yet, as his lips move over yours, you can’t bring it in yourself to care.
Taehyung loves you. And that’s all that matters.