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Sometimes, when Jeno can’t sleep, he goes to the gym.
Back in the dorms, Jaemin always caught him on his way out the door. No matter how discreet Jeno was—lacing his shoes in the dark, extracting a protein bar from the pantry with such surgical precision that the wrapper didn’t crinkle—it was as if he triggered an alarm in Jaemin’s head the moment he decided to leave. Jaemin would just flash his uncanny shark’s smile and ask if he could come along. Sometimes Jeno acquiesced; sometimes he argued. Sometimes he felt too guilty to drag Jaemin out at some ungodly hour and returned to bed instead.
But he and Jaemin don’t live together anymore, so nobody cares when Jeno leaves his apartment at three in the morning.
The first snow fell yesterday, and the sight of it is an immediate comfort. Everything feels subdued, blanketed in white. And the ritual of Jeno’s journey soothes him above all: the simple process of driving his car, scanning his company ID to enter the building, boarding the elevator. All in silence. Nobody’s awake to weasel self-consciousness and small talk from him.
With his gym bag slung over his shoulder, Jeno strolls into the SM gym, already thinking about the bakery he’ll visit after his workout, the one across the street that opens before the sky lightens, golden mounds of soboro-ppang already steaming—
Jeno freezes in place.
Another person is in the gym.
And not just any person.
It’s—
“Jeno!” Giselle pauses the elliptical she’s using and slips off her headset to greet him, instantly foiling his plan to turn on his heel and bolt. “How have you been?”
“Good,” Jeno says politely, grateful when his voice comes out even. The last time he saw Giselle was at SMTown in Jakarta, which seems like a lifetime ago. It was sweltering then—a head-swimming, thigh-sticking sheen over everything, difficult to even imagine now that it’s winter. Jeno remembers the tank top Giselle wore then. Remembers her hair stuck to the back of her neck. Her smile when she saw him at the soundcheck for “ZOO,” vibrant as the one she’s wearing now. “What are you doing here so late?”
“Oh, I just got done with a prerecording. We have another one in a few hours; I figured I’d squeeze in a workout.”
The bundle of nerves in Jeno’s stomach uncoils ever so slightly. He huffs, amused. “You really love working out, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” Giselle says without hesitation. Her hair, freshly strawberry blonde, is in a ponytail tonight; it bounced behind her earlier as she ran. Her athletic shorts have hiked up perilously high. “Don’t you?”
“Not really. I just do it to look good, I guess.”
“Well, it’s working.”
Heat blossoms in Jeno’s face, then spreads outward like ink in water until his whole body is aflame. He fervently hopes the flush isn’t as visible as it feels. “Um, thank you.”
Giselle laughs at him. “Cute.”
Cute.
It was the first thing she ever said to him, during their first dance practice together, when he was so nervous to interact with a non-NCT idol that he accidentally called her sunbaenim. She laughed at him in the same mean-but-not-mean way back then, too. Jeno was rosy all day, thinking of it.
Over the course of their sporadic encounters—SMTown concerts, company dinners, one memorable game night at Chenle’s house that had the members teasing Jeno for ages afterward—she called him cute again and again. When he got shy. When he got frustrated. When he zoned out, staring into space with his tongue hanging out. Cute, cute, cute. Cute like a puppy, or a Sanrio stationery set. Nothing Jeno hasn’t heard a million times before. Still, it consumes him.
They exchange a few more pleasantries, then Jeno starts his workout, acutely aware of Giselle’s presence the entire time. She must be just finishing hers, because she begins to stretch, standing in front of the mirror and splaying her limbs in ways that have Jeno clenching his fists and focusing very hard on visualizing Jaemin’s face. His grandmother’s face. How much he respects women. Et cetera.
Despite his best efforts, Jeno stares. Giselle locks eyes with him through the mirror.
“Hey,” she says.
A familiar panic flares in Jeno’s chest. It reminds him of being a trainee, getting caught messing around on his Gameboy in the practice room. The apology is already hurtling up his throat when Giselle speaks again.
“Can you help me? I’m trying to crack my back.”
Jeno blinks. “You…you want me to…”
“Yeah. Just, you know.” Giselle lies flat on her back and twists her spine, one leg crossed over the other. “Hold my shoulder, here, and my hip, and push them in opposite directions.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Why would I mind?” Giselle raises her eyebrows, guileless. She’s still on the ground. Jeno is standing over her. The whole scenario is twisting his stomach into knots. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Well…”
“You don’t think I’m too gross and sweaty?”
“What? No!” Jeno squeaks, and Giselle bursts into peals of laughter, pure and bright as wind chimes. “Just—nevermind. I can do it.”
Gingerly, Jeno bends and does as he’s been instructed, but Giselle huffs in disapproval almost immediately.
“C’mon, Jeno, harder than that.”
This is a dream, Jeno decides. A sick concoction of his subconscious, designed to torture him.
He pushes harder. The difference in their body temperatures makes it evident that Giselle has been working out, that Jeno has recently come in from the snow. She’s so warm beneath his palms.
After a moment, the muted pop of Giselle’s joints fills the empty gym, and her expression melts into one of perfect bliss.
“Ah, that’s it,” she sighs. “Thank you.”
“Um, no problem.” Jeno pulls his hands away. He instinctively wants to scramble to his feet, but maybe that would be weird. He averts his gaze, cheeks burning.
But Giselle doesn’t let him get away with it. There’s a soft rustle as she sits up, followed by the gentle weight of her hand on his shoulder.
“Jeno.”
Jeno turns to face her. A deer in the headlights.
They’re entirely too close. Jeno can make out Giselle’s individual flyaway hairs, the sheen of gloss on her lips, the flush of exertion dusting her skin. In the empty gym, it feels like they’re the only people awake in the slumbering, snowing world.
“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” Giselle says, which is such a non-sequitur that Jeno barely computes it at first. Then: “I don’t know if you realized, but I’ve been coming on to you.”
Jeno’s jaw clicks faintly as it drops.
“I had a feeling that you liked me.” Giselle snorts, drily amused, before her face straightens again. She’s nervous. The realization sets something in Jeno alight. “But it’s okay if you don’t. I hope I haven’t come on too strong, or changed anything between us—”
“I like you.”
Jeno says it at the same moment he realizes it. God, of course he likes Giselle. Her subtle grace, her self-assurance. Her laugh as she calls him cute.
And the smile that breaks across her face at his confession. “You do?”
“Yes. I have for a while, I think.”
“And do you…” Giselle presses closer. Her bare leg brushes against the fabric of Jeno’s sweatpants. Her warmth. “Do you want me?”
Her thighs. Her mouth. Her softness, her sturdiness, her strength.
“I do.”
“Do you want me right now?”
Jeno swallows hard. There’s a rushing sound, like the ocean filling his ear canal. He curls his fingers to keep from being swept away. “Yes. If you’ll have me.”
Giselle beams, and punctures the overbearing tension between them all at once. She pushes herself to her feet, then holds out a hand to help Jeno to his.
“Okay,” she says, easy as anything. “Follow me.”
🐾
Giselle leads the way out of the gym and through the building, down long hallways and past empty offices, her stride brisk and unwavering. Jeno, meanwhile, trails an arm’s length behind her, vaguely anxious and possibly more turned on than he’s ever been in his life. His gym bag, draped over an arm, bumps against the backs of his thighs as he walks. When he and Giselle ride the elevator together, he bows his head and stares at the floor, dizzy with the proximity. At last, they arrive at the practice rooms.
Past the dance rooms lie rows of single-occupancy rooms designed for individual vocal practice, each tiny and furnished with nothing more than a keyboard, piano bench, and music stand. Their doors lock; they’re soundproof. Jeno’s heard the stories. His dizziness is mounting.
“Jeno,” Giselle says softly. At some point during their journey she’s acquired a small roll of Scotch tape, which she holds in one hand and lets dangle by her side. This is distracting and inexplicable enough that Jeno is momentarily jolted from his horny stupor. “Are you alright?”
“I’m alright.”
“We don’t have to, you know.”
Jeno knows, but he thinks he might die if they don’t. “I want to,” he says, even as the admission sends lava snaking through his intestines. “I want—anything. Anything you’ll give me.”
“Wow.” Giselle snorts and shakes her head, mildly incredulous. “Okay, then. Let’s go.”
She picks a vocal practice room seemingly at random and enters, Jeno right on her heels. They both dump their bags in the corner of the room. After shutting and locking the door behind them, Giselle pulls a leaf of sheet music from the stand and uses it to cover the little square window in the door, fixing it in place with the Scotch tape. Jeno watches in awe.
“Just in case,” she says with a wink.
Has she done this before, or is she just that competent, that casually calculating? Jeno doesn’t know which option is more arousing. He’s halfway ready to follow her to the ends of the earth.
Most people, Jaemin said once, carding a hand through Jeno’s hair, have layers of fat and muscle and bone to protect their heart. But our Samoyed’s heart is out in the open, where anyone can see, and even take a bite if they want. So we have to be careful.
Well, if Giselle wants to eat his heart, Jeno will gladly let her.
Giselle sits at the edge of the piano bench, straddling it, parting her legs and—oh God. Her thighs. Jeno’s head. He steps toward her as if he’s being pulled, a puppet on a string. Once he reaches the foot of the piano bench, he kneels without thinking about it. “Can I…” Jeno doesn’t even know what he’s asking. What he’s doing.
But Giselle just nods. She’s so pretty from this vantage point, Jeno thinks, when she’s looking down at him. Her face framed in shadow, her ponytail spilling over one shoulder, her bangs wispy around eyes dark with intent.
Jeno doesn’t even bother removing her shorts; he simply pushes them to one side, and he’s rewarded with the sight of her underwear. It’s plain white cotton, nothing out of the ordinary. But it’s hers. And—his brain short-circuits when he processes what he’s seeing—it’s damp in the front. Seized by instinct, Jeno presses his face against it, desperate to smell, to taste, and feels Giselle gasp and jerk away.
He draws back immediately, guilty. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have—was I too—”
“No, no.” Giselle scoots forward on the bench, giving herself the wiggle room she needs to shimmy out of her shorts. Then her underwear.
Jeno is going to faint.
Giselle’s cunt is fucking gorgeous—a deep, dusty brown; gradually pinker toward the center, like a rose; glistening and beckoning. It feels almost wrong to think that he could put his mouth on it.
“Can I—” Jeno’s voice comes out hoarse. He clears his throat and tries again. “Can I really…”
“Go ahead, baby,” Giselle says, which irrevocably rewires every last one of Jeno’s synapses, and is all the confirmation he needs before diving in.
She’s delicious, of course. Musky, salty, rich, difficult to define, impossible to abandon. The texture is mesmerizing, too, slick and slippery enough to have Jeno chasing after it again and again. In the frantic interludes when he pulls away to breathe—mindless, senseless, no room in his head for something so frivolous as breathing—a string of spit trails from his lower lip to keep them connected, viscous and all mixed up with her.
Really, the entire experience is a sensory delight. First and foremost are Giselle’s thighs, warm and plush, with a hard layer of muscle underneath from all her gym days, flexing on either side of Jeno’s face. Then her ankles hooked around the small of his back, her pubic hair brushing against his nose. And the beautiful little noises she makes—punchy gasps, airy whines, guttural moans. Her hand clenches in his hair, pulling hard enough to make his scalp prickle. “Pull harder,” he pleads, and she yanks until his eyes roll back in his head.
Jeno is artless at first, slobbering and solely occupied with tasting as much of Giselle as possible. Eventually, however, he settles into a rhythm. He pays attention to her noises, the guiding movement of her hand in his hair—her methods of providing feedback. Contentment settles in his gut, radiant. He’s pleasing her.
“God, you’re eager,” Giselle pants. “Like a puppy. That’s what everyone calls you, right?”
And Jeno—Jeno outright whimpers at being called a puppy, which should be humiliating, except that he’s floating in a shimmering sky of sensation, buoyed internally by the cotton candy cloud he’s swallowed, so he doesn’t mind. Anyway, Giselle seems to like it when he vocalizes. Something about the vibrations in his lips when he does, he thinks.
“Puppy,” Giselle repeats breathlessly, and uses both hands to fiddle with his hair. Jeno doesn’t need a mirror to know that she’s forming a makeshift pair of puppy ears. “So cute.”
She comes not long afterward, her climax accompanied by a soft exclamation in English that goes completely over Jeno’s head. Her thighs tighten around his face until the pressure is almost unbearable. Her feet drum against his back. And she gushes. Jeno laps up as much of it as he can, until she gets oversensitive and pushes him away.
“Jesus Christ.” Giselle flops backward onto the piano bench, her face to the ceiling as she catches her breath. Jeno remains kneeling. He can be patient, even if his knees are screeching in protest. Even if he’s so hard that he’s pretty sure he’s bloodless in every part of his body besides his cock.
At last, Giselle pushes herself upright, and promptly laughs at Jeno. It electrifies him. He wants to listen to her laugh at him forever. “You look so fucked up right now,” she gloats. “Your face is all shiny and red. And your hair is a disaster.”
Jeno beams.
“Stand up.”
After a couple false starts, Jeno wobbles to his feet, shaky and vulnerable as a newborn deer. His desire is a physical thing, compressed inside his ribcage.
“Here, let me just…” Giselle presses a hand between her legs and—God—Jeno’s desire swells and roars, a wave, crushing his diaphragm and flooding his lungs—dips it into herself to wet it. “You want me to touch you, puppy?”
Jeno practically dislocates his neck nodding.
Predictably, it only takes a couple strokes before he’s spilling into her hand with a strangled cry, knees buckling, one arm hastily thrown against the wall to keep himself from falling entirely. Giselle is thorough and efficient, catching every last drop in her palm to prevent a mess. And she feeds it to him afterward, cooing at the assiduous way he licks between her fingers until there’s nothing left.
“Good boy,” she murmurs, like Jeno’s heart hasn’t been through enough tonight.
“Do you…Do you know the bakery across the street?” he hears himself say, as if from underwater. Despite the enormity of all they’ve shared, despite the tinge of unreality still coloring everything, the words make Jeno blush. “They should be open by now. They have this soboro-ppang that I always get.”
Luckily, Giselle reads his mind, and she spares him from floundering any further. “Sure,” she says, with that bright smile again, the one that means she finds him cute. “I have some time before I have to leave.”
They can’t risk being seen together, of course, so Jeno goes alone, skin buzzing all the while. He’s nervous as he crosses the street. Nervous as he greets the bakery owner, who recognizes him. He’s certain that what he’s done is written all over him, that anyone could tell at a single glance. It feels impossible to think that he hasn’t changed at all.
Nonetheless, the trip goes without incident, and Jeno returns to the practice room bearing a little white box tied with twine. They use the piano bench as a table (Giselle assures him that she wiped it off while he was gone), sitting cross-legged on the floor on either side of it. Giselle eats voraciously, and she pauses occasionally to madden Jeno by licking the crumbs from her fingers—the same fingers that he licked, the same fingers that she just—that she—
“Jeno.” Giselle slides a leg under the piano bench, reaching across to prod Jeno’s thigh with a socked foot. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course,” Jeno says. Too enthusiastically, probably. Too instant, too emphatic. But Giselle doesn’t seem to mind. She doesn’t seem to mind anything about him, so far.
“This whole puppy thing.” Giselle cocks an eyebrow. “You really like it, right? Hey.” She must read his expression—not that this is a particularly impressive feat, considering that Jeno’s entire face crumples like tissue paper and turns crimson—because she continues, “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I just want to make sure.”
“Yes,” Jeno mumbles, barely audible. “I really like it.”
“Good. Good! That’s really good. Honestly.” Giselle retracts her leg, then crawl-shimmies over to Jeno’s side in a gesture that would be deeply inelegant if performed by anyone else. With her clean hand, the one she hasn’t been eating with, she scratches under Jeno’s chin. It’s as if she casts a magic spell. Immediately, Jeno’s eyes slip shut; the tension bleeds from his spine. “I like it too, puppy. Okay?”
“Okay,” he whispers. The dizziness is returning. His heart feels like an overfilled balloon.
“Now, how do you feel about leashes?”
🐾
Over a month passes before the leash comes up again.
Jeno thought about it constantly in the interim, of course. He thought about everything. Woke gasping more than once. But Giselle scrupulously waited until Gayo Daejeon to arrange their next rendezvous—until they had a pretense to talk with one another in person. No paper trail, no digital footprint.
(He saw her once before then, completely by chance, outside the SM cafe. She was leaving as he arrived, a drink in each hand and a gaggle of members and managers around her. She winked at him. He was useless for the rest of the day.)
Backstage at Gayo Daejeon, Jeno and Giselle filmed a flurry of company-approved TikTok challenges, with Jaemin and Karina there to act as a buffer. Afterward, the four of them sat and shared snacks, and Giselle found a discreet moment to tell Jeno, very faintly, of an approaching day when the Aespa dorms would be empty.
So now he’s here. Naked in bed. With a leash.
The other end is fixed to the bedpost, and there’s a decent amount of slack, provided that Jeno doesn’t move around much. Nothing too elaborate or restrictive for their first time, they both agreed. It’s more about the feeling than anything, anyway. The knowledge that he’s wearing it.
The leash Giselle’s chosen for him is pale pink, the color of strawberry milk, just like the collar around his neck. She was so careful when she put the collar on him, so sweet, her fingers cool against the flush of his neck as she wriggled them beneath the band to verify that it wasn’t too tight. There’s a silver charm fixed to the collar, a little dog bone, that jingles whenever Jeno turns his head. It’s perfect.
Giselle is still fully clothed—simply, beautifully, in joggers and an old t-shirt—as she circles the bed, surveying Jeno with a maddeningly innocent curiosity. She giggles as she runs a hand over his abs, her acrylic nails tickling. She pinches his thighs. His nipples. She calls him pretty and cute and makes him blush and dimple.
And then, of course, there’s the matter of his cock.
“Jeez,” Giselle mutters, stopping at the foot of the bed to cross her arms as she appraises it again.
Shame swoops to the bottom of Jeno’s stomach. His whole body feels hot and cold at once. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I know it’s a lot.”
He’s aware, naturally, that he’s… Well. It’s never come up before; it’s always just been him. The realization that this might be an issue must leave him looking stricken, because Giselle’s entire demeanor softens when she sees whatever his face is doing.
“It’s alright,” she says gently. “I’ll just have to work up to it a bit more. I can handle more than you think, you know.” She smiles at him, sweet and soothing, just before she reaches out and touches him there, which turns Jeno’s brain into a fuzzy sea of static. He’s spared from coming right then and there, thankfully, because Giselle doesn’t jerk him off; she just sort of—bats him around. Plays with him. “Really, though,” she laughs, impish again as she takes in the way Jeno’s cock bobs back into place after she’s released it, the muted thwack of it hitting his lower stomach, “what do you need all of this for?”
Her mirth is reassuring—and arousing, viscerally so—but Jeno still needs to make sure. “You don’t mind, do you?” he asks, feather-light.
“No,” Giselle confirms. “I don’t mind.”
Then she climbs on top of him.
Jeno’s still overwhelmed by the weight of her body against his when she kisses him. They didn’t kiss before, in the practice room. She kisses him wet and deep, sucking his tongue into her mouth, which elicits a startled little yelp from him.
At that, Giselle pulls away, though not by very much. They’re still so close that Jeno has to cross his eyes to look her in the face. They’re still breathing each other’s breath.
“Okay?” she asks, teasing.
“Okay,” Jeno croaks.
And she kisses him again.
Time distorts as she does. Jeno has no idea how much of it passes, except that it’s enough for his lips to feel bruised, enough for saliva to pool in his mouth and choke him.
Giselle pauses at intervals to shed her clothes, piece by piece. Each removal is a revelation, a new expanse to explore. Jeno’s hands are feverish, fervent in their efforts to hold it all: the soft warmth of her stomach, the smooth plane of her back, the gentle swell of her breasts. When, at last, Giselle shimmies out of her underwear, kicks it off and leaves it crumpled on the floor—the last piece of clothing to go, the last barrier between her skin and Jeno’s—she takes one of his hands, ceasing its ministrations, and folds down all fingers but two. Then she draws those two fingers toward her and eases them into her cunt.
They enter without any resistance. She’s so wet, so slick, furnace-hot. Jeno traces the contours of her walls with breathless wonder.
“Mm,” Giselle hums. She swivels her hips, experimental. “That’s nice. Your fingers are longer than mine. Help get me ready for you, puppy?”
“Yes,” Jeno says, practically tripping over the word, as if she’ll take it back if he delays in his response. “Yes, yes.”
Giselle rides his fingers for a while. Her voice is hushed, husky, as she instructs him on when to curl them, when to thrust and finger-fuck her. When to add another finger, and another. She takes the third one easily, but at the addition of Jeno’s pinky, a crease appears between her brows.
Jeno’s heart flips over. “Are you okay?”
“I’m okay.” To placate him, Giselle reaches for Jeno’s other hand—it’s clenched in the sheets by his side, white-knuckled, clinging to the last of his sanity as he struggles to stay still for her—and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Push in deeper.”
“Are you—”
“I’m sure. Go on.”
Slowly, Jeno pushes until he’s buried to the knuckle. Giselle closes her eyes and gives a long exhale.
“Honestly,” she says airily, “I’m getting a little impatient. Aren’t you?”
Jeno can only stare. He doesn’t want to rush her, but if he speaks, he may beg. Every inch of him feels tense and trembling, like a rubber band pulled taut. He watches, awestruck, as Giselle pulls herself off his fingers. Then she climbs off the bed entirely, rummaging through her nightstand before returning with lube and a condom.
It’s all too smooth—the way she rips open the condom with her teeth, then slides it over Jeno’s cock in one fluid motion. She’s done this before. Jeno is half-drunk on the knowledge. Who’s been in this bed before him? Who’ll be in it after him?
Would she let him watch?
His train of thought crashes when Giselle begins stroking him, slathering him with lube. It’s something he’s done to himself a thousand times while jacking off, but it feels incomprehensibly better with her. “Oh God,” Jeno groans. His hips buck against his will.
“Hold still,” Giselle scolds. She yanks his collar hard, just once, and Jeno sees stars.
“Please,” he says, unable to help himself any longer. “Please let me fuck you.”
Giselle’s gaze is molten when it meets his. “Since you asked so nicely,” she murmurs. She wipes her lube-covered hand on Jeno’s abs, leaving them tacky and shining. Then she climbs back onto the bed, straddling him, crawling on her knees until she’s positioned over his pelvis.
“Please,” Jeno says again.
Carefully, Giselle reaches back to hold the base of Jeno’s cock, keeping it steady as she lines it up with her entrance. She brushes against his cockhead and it’s like she sets his veins on fire. She takes it inside—just barely, teasing, testing the give of her cunt—and he nearly weeps. Then, finally, finally, she sits on him.
She doesn’t sit all at once. It’s gradual, a squat in slow-motion. Somewhere in the back of his heat-addled mind, Jeno admires her bodily control, her physical strength. A few times, she takes him as far as halfway before easing up to just the tip again, then starting anew. Stretching herself open on him. The entire affair is excruciatingly slow, but Giselle seems to be aware of how thin Jeno’s fraying, because she stops every now and then to pat his head. Eventually, he settles into the syrupy pleasure of it, so thick and sweet that his eyelids droop.
After an eternity of this, Giselle pulls up so far that Jeno is hardly anchored in her at all. This time, she doesn’t immediately sink back down.
Jeno’s eyes flutter open. “Giselle?” He’s been floating for so long, more sensation than human, that the word is difficult to form. Still, if there’s anything he’d be able to say, it’s her name.
“Mm,” Giselle hums. She eyes Jeno contemplatively. Her tongue lolls over her lower lip. Then, all at once, she engulfs him whole.
It punches the air from Jeno’s lungs. He’s buried to the hilt in her cunt for the first time, but it’s not just that—her ass is flush against him, her full weight resting on him. When she leans over him and kisses him, her body blocks out the light, and suddenly Jeno is drowning in her, unable to see or hear or feel anything that isn’t Giselle. It’s overwhelming. It’s everything.
“Giselle,” he whines when the kiss breaks, then gives a garbled moan that would mortify him if he had any self-consciousness left. “Giselle, Giselle, oh my God.”
“Fuck,” she hisses. She looks like she’s barely holding on herself. “Fuck, puppy, you have no idea how big you feel. I can feel you in my fucking throat.”
She rides him like a pro, of course. Slowly at first, then building in tempo, until the bedsprings are screeching in protest and Jeno is arcing off the mattress, meeting her thrust for thrust. It’s all so obscene: the wet slap of skin against skin, the rattle of Jeno’s leash against the bedpost, the perfect view he has of Giselle’s breasts bouncing with each movement she makes. They’re both sweatier and hotter than Jeno has ever been offstage, but stopping is unthinkable. Jeno feels possessed, reduced to some animal form he didn’t know existed in him. Giselle says harder, and he obeys. Giselle says faster, and he obeys.
“You feel so good,” she grunts against Jeno’s jugular, teeth scraping salty skin. “I should fuck you next time, let you see what it’s like—”
“Yes,” Jeno cries at once, overcome. Everything in him, from his chest to his stomach to his balls, tightens unbearably. “Yes, please, Giselle, I want—I’m close—”
Giselle bites down on Jeno’s clavicle so hard that he practically screams, then sucks on the mark she left. “You gonna come in me, puppy?”
“Yes,” he says again, and does just that.
The orgasm crashes into Jeno like a wave, bowling him over. It’s far deeper and longer than any he’s had before. The world goes white; electricity crackles through his throbbing limbs. Giselle rides him through it, milking him for every last drop, until he’s wailing and writhing.
“Giselle,” he half-sobs. “Unnie.”
“Fuck, Jeno, make me come right now; I need it.” Giselle scrambles off of him, which seems unfathomable for a moment, like they’ve forgotten what separation felt like. The feeling of Jeno’s softening cock slipping free from her makes them both gasp and whimper. Clumsily, Giselle crawls up the length of Jeno’s torso, and shoves her cunt into his face.
He doesn’t need any further instruction. He can feel her desperation, a mirror of his own from moments ago, and he dives straight in, sucking hard on her clit.
“That’s it, baby,” she pants. Her voice is wrecked. “Such a good boy—ah, ah, ah—oh my God—”
Jeno slides a few fingers into her, thinking that she must miss the fullness, and sucks harder. Giselle cries herself hoarse as she comes. Wave after wave, crashing into Jeno until at last the tsunami subsides into a faint tremor. When Giselle pulls away, he makes to sit up, meaning to kiss her, but the leash catches him and he gags.
Giselle laughs at him. Giggles, really. One hand comes up to cover her mouth as she does—a strikingly innocent, girlish gesture which, despite the exhaustion seeping into Jeno’s bones, kindles a spark of heat in his gut.
“Here,” Giselle says. “Let’s take all of this off.”
She unclips first Jeno’s leash, then his collar. With practiced care, she eases the condom off of him, ties off the end, and dumps it in the wastebasket. She ghosts her fingers over the bruise already blossoming on his clavicle, just to see him wince.
“You were so good, puppy,” she murmurs, so tenderly that Jeno wants to collapse into her forever. “I mean it.”
“Thank you,” Jeno says. His head is beginning to clear, his breath to level. Then, with a blush, he remembers: “I called you unnie, earlier.”
“You did.” Giselle bends to kiss his bruise twice, quick and soft. “I liked it. Did you?”
“I think so.”
“Good.”
“And…” Jeno trails off, but Giselle is happy to let silence hang in the air, staring at him with expectantly raised brows. “When you—when you said you’d fuck me next time…”
Giselle’s face smooths in surprise, and Jeno is briefly afraid that she’ll say that she didn’t mean it, that it was just the heat of the moment. Then she smiles. “You want that?”
“I do,” Jeno whispers, head bowed.
“Good,” Giselle says again. “Me too. Now come on, let’s wash up.”
At that, Jeno’s embarrassment vanishes, replaced by obstinance. “Don’t wanna,” he pouts, and Giselle rolls her eyes before wrestling him from the bed. Jeno doesn’t know how she still has so much energy. His own eyelids have seemingly been replaced with dumbbells.
Eventually, however, they manage a shower. Giselle complains the entire time about the soreness in her hips and back, so Jeno takes her back to bed, still naked and damp, and gives her a massage. He can’t resist coaxing another orgasm out of her with his fingers. Afterward, they curl up on the couch with a cup of mint chocolate ice cream. Jeno sits in Giselle’s lap. She hooks her chin over his shoulder. Fills a spoon with ice cream and taps it against his lower lip.
“Say ah,” she coos.
“Ah.”
They polish off the ice cream like that, Giselle manning the spoon. One bite for her, one for Jeno. Back and forth. Jeno feels untouchable.
“I’ll get us new phones,” he says, his voice deep and gravelly the way it gets when he’s been recording for hours. Giselle remarked on it earlier with surprise, and it strangely thrilled him to realize that she’s never heard him like that before. How little she knows of him. How much more there is to discover. “Ones we’ll use exclusively for each other. Safer that way.”
“Mm. Good idea. I’m going shopping with the girls tomorrow, so I can get one then.”
“No, I’ll—I’ll buy them. If that’s okay.”
Jeno’s stomach clenches with anxiety. He hopes desperately that his words don’t come across as pretension, a slimy attempt at asserting himself, when it’s just the opposite. He wants to service her.
But Giselle understands, of course. She smiles and scratches under Jeno’s chin. “Okay, puppy. Thank you.”
When Jeno twists around to look at her, there’s a smudge of ice cream at the corner of her lip. He darts forth to lick it away. She giggles, sweet and sharp.
“Let’s go back to my room,” she says. “We can get on my laptop and look at strap-ons together.”
Jeno hums agreeably and stands, utterly content. He’s already thinking about how he’ll make her laugh again.