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Minhee really is taking an uncharacteristic risk by being here: one locked door away from the labyrinthine backstage half-dark, her legs parted as she tips her head back against the wall, the plastic table cool against the bare undersides of her thighs. She wears skirts so rarely on stage, but an impulse had driven her to nod at this one when the stylists had their hands all over her just hours ago, and she’s glad for it now: it had been so easy for Channie to tug the safety shorts down to her ankles and lift the heavy, elegant fabric just far up enough to duck his head underneath it. Before her, all she can see is the bowed outline of his spine. She imagines he likes the shadowy cathedral it must have shut him into, having his face hidden by the fabric, just him and the darkness and the smell and the warmth of her cunt; it’s precisely the type of thing that makes his eyes go hazy. The drape of the skirt suggests the outline of his skull. She moans, throaty and low in her chest, as his nose — so familiar now — presses against her clit, not deliberate so much as it is the almost-forgotten consequence of his tongue spearing its way inside her.
Odd not to be able to hear him. Usually he’s so loud when he gets his mouth on her pussy, groans when he tastes her, whines if she squeezes his head between her thighs; it’s the one thing he isn’t shy about. Well, no, that’s not right — he gets shy after, if she tells him how he sounded. It’s the one thing where he lets his need override his embarrassment. But the skirt muffles him today. Minhee shudders as he palms one of her thighs, presses his tongue inside her again steady and insistent. He’s better at this than he should be. There’s a muffled sound in the space between his face and her cunt that she feels more than hears, the vibration of it sweet against her skin; she wishes she could hear him. She wishes he could hear her.
The door isn’t that thin, but it isn’t that thick either. Minhee hadn’t planned on seeing Chan today for more than the requisite, across-the-room glances — too risky, with half the industry crammed into the same building and all too ready to rub shoulders, with the extra eyes on Minhee that came with taking home another little figurine. Solo artist of the year. She told herself she didn’t need awards to remind herself that she had done well, that she’d grown out of that by now, but it was still — pleasant, that victory taste, a cloying sweetness like fortified wine that slipped too easily down her throat and coiled, almost erotic, in her belly.
Winning always knocked her off-guard with how good it felt, how fast it got her tipsy on it. She had given the tamer, balladic performance she had planned to, then retreated backstage, casting her eyes over Chan and his little hyungs as they jostled nervously in the space between her award and the next. The three of them had all worn cheap plastic collars. Chan had looked up and coloured under her stare, like he already knew what she was thinking: a not-quite-disdainful mix of I could find you a better one and Fuck, but it looks good on you anyway.
If victory had gotten Minhee tipsy, it had gotten Chan drunk. He had stumbled into her twenty minutes later, fervently pretending he was lost the same way he always did — Ah, sunbaenim, I’m so sorry, do you know which way —, his eyes alight and fervent and making the lie even less convincing than usually. She could see the energy wound taut inside him like a coiled spring. It had startled her to laughter, an undignified snort: Shouldn’t you be celebrating with your hyungs, Channie, she had said. There was no one around to hear them. He had gotten flustered; his hand had flown to the back of his neck. She had wanted to eat him. Or to make him eat her out — either would work.
I’ll see them later, he had mumbled, clearly unused to being called out on his flimsy excuses; he was his hyungs’ sweet hardworking maknae, was always where he was meant to be except for when he was with Minhee. Then he’d looked down at her — they were almost the same height, she was usually a little taller, but his stylists had put him in platform boots today — and said, clearly practiced, Wanted to see noona first. His lips remained faintly parted after the last phoneme. It should not have worked on her. It was very galling, the fact that it worked on her.
I’m too old to be your noona, she had said disparagingly, then given herself a bit of a talking-to for her own flushed ears; the two of them matched, pink-flanked. They wouldn’t have made Channie an idol if he didn’t have the charisma to pull it off, but — really. She had more than a decade of poker faces on her side. She should know better than to fall for the flirty equivalent of meeting one’s mother-in-law and exclaiming to one’s partner, Wow, I didn’t know you had a sister! Chan had grinned down at her, one tongue trapped between his teeth like he was trying not to show how smug he felt; both of them knew that he’d won even before she rolled her eyes and told him where the electrical room was, then turned away and pretended she didn’t know him.
It’s still a risk to be in here. That precipice sensation yawns in her gut: she’ll keep her voice down, else somebody might hear the way Lee Minhee sounds as she’s being tonguefucked by a baby JYP idol fifteen years her junior. She gets off on the risk a little bit, she thinks. Channie, though — he just gets off on getting her off.
His hand trails up the inside of her thigh, a deep gentle pressure as he probes the layers of muscle and fat woven together; the pad of one finger toys at the crease of her hip, the slick swollen mess of her folds, before pressing gently inside her alongside his tongue. Minhee presses her lips together and tries not to spasm. His finger traces inside her leisurely, unhurried and untargeted — Chan knows damn well exactly where to press to make her cry out, and he’s avoiding it, needling her just because he can. Would be smirking if his mouth were less occupied. Abruptly the skirt frustrates Minhee, as much as she had briefly enjoyed the gimmick, and she shuffles awkwardly on the desk until Chan gets the message and sits back; he lifts his head from beneath the hem just as she gets it over her hips and lets it pool forgotten on the floor, wreathing Chan’s knees in indigo. She should get him a skirt. A little one, maybe one of those thigh garters too, let him empathise a little better with his girl peers; he’d probably like feeling exposed, though. Slut, she thinks fondly, her mouth a little dry at the thought of how a microskirt might frame his ridiculous, pretty ass.
Chan blinks slowly up at her. His face gleams in the low light, his makeup smeared; she winces at the idea that he might have left his foundation behind on her pussy, then makes the executive decision not to think about it. The harsh rise and fall of his chest sketches the rhythm of his breathing. When she rakes her eyes down his body, he’s hard in those stupid tight leather pants his stylists have put him in; she imagines it must be painful, but probably in the kind of way he seems to like, the sting and ache of being squeezed, denied, restrained.
The strip of skin between his waistband and the crop top swells and then goes concave each time he breathes. The outfit is nothing particularly special, very standard boy-group definitely-not-BDSM concept, from the strappy fake-leather armbands to the collar that jumps whenever he swallows, highlighting the apple of his throat; the real appeal is the way Chan is so obviously both embarrassed and delighted to be as exposed as he is. He had cringed when she first tugged on the little D-ring, earlier. Gone bright red and said It’s just a stage outfit, noona as though she hadn’t felt his cock twitch against her thigh. He’s such a cute little knot of self-contradiction.
“Tastes good?” she murmurs, just to watch him nod. Her whole body swims with a dizzy, waking-up sort of sensation as the light gleams again on the mess she has made of his face, as his eyes swim slowly upwards to meet hers, dark and visibly melty with lust. He looks sweet when he’s taller than her; he looks better on his knees. “Wanted to see you, puppy,” she adds, her cunt clenching with a vicious sensation, something like glee, as he goes scarlet. Minhee is an idol, a star; a whole industry loves her, a whole country wants her. None of them want her as much as Bang Chan. It’s intoxicating.
“Don’t call me that,” he rasps, then visibly cringes further as he hears his own voice, arousal-hoarse, wobbly. He can’t hold eye contact. She doesn’t police where he looks, as a rule; his eyes skitter along her limbs, snag on her pussy, find a spot on her thigh and begin to burn a hole in it. He’s so intense even when he’s trying not to be. Minhee has never met someone she wants to break more than this man; the urge sits physical, fleshy, somewhere beneath her gums.
“Why not, Channie?” she murmurs. She sits forward on the edge of her desk, splaying her legs like a man, until she can lean in and catch him by the collar again. “You look enough like one, wearing this. Don’t you like how it feels?”
She watches the two sides of him go to war as she holds him: part of him wants so badly to be flirty and suave and smug, but his need to please runs deeper. So easy to nudge sideways into needing to be good. She’d clocked it the very first time she saw him, frankly: spotted the new boy group across a crowd and thought, Wow, that kid definitely gets off on giving head, the way he listened well to his hyungs, the way he came alive when it was his little band’s turn to perform. Minhee had felt a little bit guilty about the thought — he had been nineteen then, twenty now, and besides he was a stranger — but generally she was quite pragmatic about the concept of thought-crime, and, well. She knew what got her off, in the privacy of her own mind. There would only be a problem if she was ever dumb enough to act on it.
(She wasn’t going to. And then he had run into her, half a year’s worth of backstages ago, and apologised profusely, said he was lost and did she know which way was gate 3, and she had looked at him for just long enough to make him squirm and then said, You’re not lost, are you. If this industry had taught her one thing, it was how to spot a liar. He had gone crimson with the force of his blush, caught, and bowed very deeply. The impulse had been a moment of weakness: What, sweetheart, she had said, and she was only teasing until the moment she realised she was right, were you looking for me?)
Chan’s breath comes harshly in the ragged light, his throat fluttering against the collar as he swallows. “Noona,” he says again, flustered. He always insists on the honorific. His weight lists sideways a little, as though he wants to lean his head against the inside of her thigh, mouth his way back up to her cunt; she purses her lips and keeps her hand where it is, just so that he feels the tug of the collar in earnest, the sensation of pressure. It’s a flimsy thing. Probably wouldn’t stand up to anything more than this. Chan’s blush deepens and fills itself in, a satisfying evening-out of the colour across his cheeks until his entire face is pink; he opens his mouth, exposing for just a sliver of a moment the plush fleshy-dark pillow of his tongue, then shuts it again with a furtive quickness as though he’s been caught.
Minhee raises an eyebrow. “You want something?”
“No,” Chan says quickly. Minhee casts her gaze to the ceiling for a moment, tired of this act by now, and tugs the D-ring harder until Chan has to sway upwards to take the pressure off the back of his neck, hovering on his knees now rather than sitting back on his heels, his balance unsteady. When she looks back down at him, he’s fighting not to squirm.
“You always want the same thing, puppy,” she says, slightly disparaging just the way he likes it. It’s probably something psychosexual with him. Maybe his mommy was mean to him. Still, they have a pretty little quid pro quo: Channie gets to come his brains out to Minhee being just a little cruel, and Minhee gets her pussy eaten by a man who actually likes doing it, and both of them go home happy despite their sticky underwear. She tells herself that’s all it is. “The least you could do is own up to wanting it.”
His weight sags into her again; this time he’s able to reach her thigh, leans his cheek heavily against it, gazes up at her with that lust-whammied, empty stare. (It probably says something about Minhee that she likes him best when he’s brainless.) “Noona,” he pleads, and the earnest desire wracks both of them for how tangibly it hangs in the air, smelling like sweat, “I want to — wanna make you come. Can I. Please.”
“Will you make it good for me, puppy?” she asks. She really should have clocked the puppy thing before today; men who are into Minhee’s whole stage persona, with the putting men on leashes and wearing a lot of black latex and all that, tend to want a collar on at least some level. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to scare Channie away. Maybe she didn’t know how much it would do for her, seeing how easily he lets himself be tugged, how much of his balance he gives away to her finger hooked in the little costume-jewelry plastic D-ring; her belly aches with arousal, feels hollowed-out, cavernous. One of the very first things she had told Chan was that he would never get to put his dick inside her. It’s her usual ground rule; it doesn’t normally bother her. But. But.
“Yeah,” Chan breathes, and she swallows, relents, unhooks her finger to thread it instead through his curly bleach-blond hair; he mouths his way up the inside of her thigh, his breath hot against her skin, then settles with his nose barely brushing her clit as though he’s waiting for permission. Or insistence. He tends to like it when she holds his face against her.
“Slut,” she says fondly, tugging his face gently closer. A shudder ripples through him; he moans louder than he should, unabashed for once in his life, and presses his mouth to her clit. His upper lip sits fat and fleshy against her skin. The jut of it is obscene. Minhee scratches her nails against his scalp, feels the punched-out exhale against her, shivers as he sweeps his tongue unerringly over her clit. Pleasure is simple; she tilts her head back again, can just see the fluffy blond top of his head over the outline of her tits, and lets Chan make her feel good.
She had wondered, at first, if he wanted something worse from her. It was folly to assume a man meant well just because he looked good on his knees. But Minhee would not do this, would not let him do this, if she didn’t know she would win any he-said-she-said case against him — yes, he was one of JYP’s babies, but she was Lee Minhee. Korea had loved her for more than a decade now. She had lawyers on retainer to act for her, rather than her agency. Besides that, Minhee liked to think she was a good judge of intention: this was a man, she thought, who had had her poster on his wall when he was in high school. This was a kid with a crush whose wet dream had come true. Harmless. Beneath it all, he just wanted to be good.
It showed: after that first time, he was always so eager to get on his knees and taste her. Up against a wall. Legs spread in a wobbly plastic chair. Spread out on a low table with his chin propped against her thigh. She wouldn’t lie and say it didn’t do something for her, that he wanted her so badly he would risk throwing away his career just to taste her in an anonymous room deep in the Inkigayo building. Maybe it was a little immoral — she could end him, she knew — but she wouldn’t; she didn’t need anything from him. He didn’t need anything from her. His little group was talented enough, clawing their way into stardom all on their own, and nobody with a JYP contract needed a way in to make industry connections — and besides, Chan seemed to have half the idols born between ’90 and ’00 calling him Channie anyway? (He’d shrugged when she asked how he knew Younghyun once, said I was a trainee for, like, seven years, you meet people, his face still messy with her come.) Chan had nothing he could bribe her with; she had nothing she could hold over his head but a threat that would take her down with it. And she wouldn’t. Just because she thought a twenty-year-old was cute didn’t mean she wanted anything from him but his mouth working ceaselessly over her pussy, the thrill of putting a bulky body on its knees, calling a big strong man puppy and savouring the way he whined beneath her.
Bang Chan — he and his two hyungs barely older than he was, the leader with the heart-shaped face and the pointy-chinned rapper who loudly teased Chan whenever the chance arose — they were going to be the next big thing. Minhee could tell; she had a feel for it by now. It didn’t matter what she and Chan did together as long as nobody ever knew about it.
(Hilariously, Chan was still young enough to have a dating ban; it had come up the second time he had pretended to be lost, and she had startled herself by teasing him mercilessly and enjoying it. He shrank into himself when he was embarrassed. Where did you even learn to eat pussy like that, she had demanded, savouring the way he cringed at her language — it was a worthwhile question, because he seemed at every other moment so painfully conscious of the rules, did not seem the type to have had girlfriends behind his company’s back. It was a little intoxicating to consider that she might have gotten a good boy to act out just for a taste of her. Coiled pretty in her gut. He had gone, somehow, even redder and said, Sometimes me and Changbin hyung, we — we mess around, which hadn’t actually answered her question because as far as she knew, neither of his hyungs had a vulva; still, maybe Chan was just a quick learner. He was certainly dedicated. He worked hard, insofar as his idea of working was giving over every part of himself; beyond that, he tonguefucked her like he loved it.)
“Chan-ah,” Minhee says now, for his attention. She pushes herself upright until she can see all of him; a bubble of arousal swells through her at the print of his cock in those horrible pants, cast into stark relief where it’s still trapped against his body. He doesn’t seem to mind. When he lifts his head to look at her, his lips shiny again, his eyes are melty and sweet. His hair has gone from artfully mussed to sex-mussed. “Fingers,” she says, and, when he cocks his head — such a puppy — “Noona is close.” It still feels wrong to call herself that, at least to him. “Don’t you want to feel it?”
He exhales heavily, then grins, a slow-spreading thing like milk poured into water. “Yeah?” he says, sounding genuinely delighted. Minhee squeezes his scalp between her fingers as though she could pop him like a soap bubble — what else can she do? He’s so cute. Mouths his way slowly back up her thigh even though she can tell how badly he wants to just shove his face into the core of her, blinks up at her through his lashes because he’s noticed how much it turns her on, his stupid little slut eyes that he sometimes gives her across a room these days when nobody is watching. Presses two fingers inside her at the same time because he knows she wants it. Minhee groans aloud, always startled, and Chan’s smile turns briefly smug until she gets her fingers into the collar again and pulls him close. His lashes flutter then; his lips find her clit. He shouldn’t be this good at it. He’s learned her carefully. The thing about Bang Chan is he works his way into your soft spot when you’re looking the wrong way, he wanders in through the gap in your armour and pretends he’s lost, he makes Minhee come better than any man she’s slept with and then looks up at her, hazy-eyed, to ask if he did okay; he’s getting pretty close to that now. Both of them can tell. Minhee sighs, bearing down on his fingers, and grinds her hips gently against his lips.
Chan, always attentive, fucks his fingers harder inside her and then groans as she spasms around him; it’s sweet-tasting, her pleasure, and she wonders if he can tell. If it tastes sweet to him too. He always tells her he likes how she tastes. Her heartbeat flutters in the back of her skull. She doesn’t squirt, but it’s a near thing; instead she bucks her hips hard against his face again, his tongue dragging over her clit and leaving sparks in its wake, the sharp firework burst of pleasure. Chan lets her ride it out. He’d let her do anything. She tugs harder than she should on the collar and he whines, high and plaintive and surprised, into the apex of her orgasm, the sound bleeding through her cunt. Minhee’s breasts heave with her off-rhythm panting. Chan presses his tongue against her clit once more, as though to make sure she’s done, then pulls away to rest his cheek on her thigh and stare up at her with a dizzying depth of need.
“So good,” Minhee says to his unanswered question, smiling when he shivers. She’s electric; her body is singing. Sensation rolls pleasantly through her again, and she tilts his chin up with her thumb, two fingers still hooked beneath the collar where his pulse beats hard and thready under his skin. He cringes at the praise as though he can’t bear to hear it. Like a flower turning away from the sun even as it blossoms. “Chan-ah. Listen to me.”
“Listening,” he mumbles, but his eyes are fixed on her tummy now. Minhee shimmies forwards until she can slip off the table and get her feet on the ground, stands over Chan with her bare pussy still hovering over his face; his lips part as if by muscle memory, but she tuts and he flinches like a struck dog. “Noona,” he says breathlessly, then shudders again.
“Channie,” she replies, sing-song, and nudges her foot between his knees — she had not taken off her boots earlier, half because she couldn’t bear struggling with the laces and half because she had this image in the back of her mind, her foot pressing Chan’s legs apart, the sound he makes as she nudges gently at his balls in those — really ridiculously tight pants. Plaintive, almost pained. She wants it to be pained; her blood sings through her. “Try not to come, puppy,” she says, because it seems to break Chan’s brain when she gives him an order he can’t follow, then presses her shoe against the straining outline of his cock.
He makes a cracked sound into the space between them, quieter, and then his hips buck against her boot like he can’t help it, he needs it; Minhee’s breath hisses between her teeth as Chan’s eyes go half-lidded, only the whites showing as though they’ve rolled back in his head. Maybe they have. “Fuck,” Chan spits out, and then struggles to still himself. Minhee’s cunt, though satisfied, throbs again at the visible desperation when he stares up at her again, baring his throat without meaning to. “Noona,” Chan says again, as though she’s going to help him. God, he’s so cute. The empty space inside her swims with pleasure.
“Good boy,” she says, then tugs on his collar almost hard enough to be dangerous; at the same time she puts pressure on his cock, so big and so useless still trapped in those pants, and satisfaction floods her as she sees it twitch, as Chan gives that scolded-puppy flinch again and then melts with a long low ohh-hh-hhhh, his voice raspy with relief. His orgasms always last so long. Minhee strokes his cheek as he empties himself into his pants, thrilling at the sight of him, the idea that he’ll have to walk around like this for at least a little bit; no matter how far he goes, no matter how much of the industry flings itself at his feet, he’ll always be the boy who came in his pants for her. Her Channie, on his knees, ready to be a superstar. A surge of tenderness startles and discomfits her, and she extracts her fingers from the collar to distract herself, wincing at the polyester texture against her skin. “Happy, puppy?” she murmurs, pretending she’s mocking him.
Chan lifts his head to look at her. “Yeah,” he says, wholly earnest, then lets his head hang down again and presses his forehead against Minhee’s shin. The frenetic energy from earlier has unspooled out of him. He seems better, more settled; if Minhee were inclined towards psychoanalysis she might say it’s because microdosing failure is good for him. Guileless, meaning it wholeheartedly: “Fuck, noona, you’re so hot.”
She feels herself blush and swallows sharply, glad for the dimness now. “That’s my job,” she says airily, then steps away to begin feeling about in the darkness for the pile of her underlayers on the table — Chan always folds the clothes he takes off her, a little neurosis she has never understood. Her pussy flutters again with that carved-out ache. “Maybe next time I’ll let you fuck me,” she says, measuring her nonchalance. He can’t think it means anything to her.
Chan glances up at her sharply, almost furtive — oh, he wants to. That’s why he’s got that guilty little crease on his forehead: he thinks she’s only offering because she knows he wants to feel her from the inside. “Noona,” he says, his eyebrows drawing together. “I don’t think — Didn’t you say —”
“Haven’t you worked out by now I don’t ask for things I don’t want,” she says waspishly, stepping back into her boyshorts and tugging the tight-fitting safety shorts up her thighs as well. The one good thing about those tight black pants of Chan’s is that at least they don’t show wet patches. “Go find your hyungs, Bang Chan. They’ll pay for all your drinks tonight.”
She could spoil him, if she’d let herself. If he’d let her. They would argue about who would get the bill: Chan and his near-pathological givingness, Minhee with ten times his net worth and the ability to shut him down by glaring at him. She can almost taste it, that different world. In the blurred-edges backstage, Chan sits back onto his heels, looking somehow dejected, and whines, “Noona, I’ve got come in my pants. I can’t go out like this.”
He’s so cute. “I don’t see how this is my problem,” she says, scooping up the pretty indigo skirt; Chan goes scarlet again when his eyes land on it, and she smirks as she drags it slowly up her legs. Pauses with the tight elastic waistband digging a little into the bulkiest part of her thigh, just to watch Chan swallow. She should have kicked him out already. Should have been less mean when he was into it; should be meaner now, after he’s already come, remind him that Minhee is taking advantage of him, cannot stay here giggling with him, has a life to go back to. Instead she says, softer than she intends, “Go on. You only get your first win once. They want to spend it with you.”
Chan swallows, then draws himself up into standing, just tall enough again in his boots to look down at Minhee; the difference is so scant it might as well not be there at all. Were they on equal footing, Minhee knows she would be taller. Just barely. “I’ll see you later, noona,” Chan says, and then — quickly, like he thinks she’s going to scold him — presses his lips to her forehead. Just for a moment. She blinks at his chest rather than look up at him, the warm outline of his lips still lingering like a shadow, as he pulls away.
When he leaves the room feels emptier. It’s the hallmark, Minhee knows, of any good performer. The thing about Bang Chan is that in a few years, he is going to be famous, and she — they need to be careful. She needs not to get dangerous ideas. She needs not to want anything other than this.
Still, she lingers in the little room for a few minutes more, breathing in the empty absence of him. Whatever poor janitor has to clean this room will know people had sex in it. It’s a joined smell, Minhee’s citrusy perfume and his generic boy-smell cologne and the two sets of sweat-scent so inextricable they cannot be told apart; it gets her where she’s tender.
Then she exhales. The victory-taste is sourer now, but she can still find the sweetness on the back of her tongue if she searches for it. When she opens the door, the dimness from the hallway outside floods in; after the near-total dark, it seems blinding.