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Chapter 1:

The roar of the Tokyo Dome was finally receding, replaced by the damp, muffled chaos of the underground corridors. The air backstage hung heavy with the smells of dry ice, hairspray, and the metallic tang of adrenaline cooling into sweat. Jennie Kim stumbled slightly as she cleared the heavy velvet curtains of the staging area, her chest heaving. The ninety-minute set for the Superpop Festival had been a marathon of high-tempo choreography and piercing screams, and her body was vibrating with the aftershocks.

She was still in her closing ensemble: a cropped, black Chanel bomber jacket with gold interlocking CCs that stopped well above her navel, leaving the toned, pale skin of her midsection exposed to the cool backstage air. Below, a matching micro-mini skirt hugged her hips, and her long legs were sheathed in sheer black tights that had a small run near the ankle—a battle scar from the night.

"You good, Jen?"

The voice belonged to Marcus, one of the six male backup dancers who had been lifting and spinning her for the past three hours of rehearsals and the show itself. He was six-foot-two of solid muscle, his dark skin glistening with sweat under the harsh fluorescent lights of the hallway. He offered a hand to steady her, his grip professional and firm.

Jennie flashed a tired but genuine smile, wiping a strand of damp hair from her eyes. "Yeah. Just my legs turning to jelly. Same as always."

Around her, the rest of the male unit was gathered near the equipment crates, peeling off their heavy layers of stage costumes. The female dancers had already been whisked away by the Osaka-bound transport team, leaving the guys behind. They were a massive presence in the narrow corridor, a wall of height and breadth that made the bustling roadies navigate around them carefully.

Justine, the de facto leader of the group, was checking his phone. He stood six-foot-three, his fade fresh and his posture relaxed despite the exertion. He looked up as Jennie approached, nodding respectfully. "Solid show tonight, Jennie. No major mishaps. The camera feeds loved the second chorus breakdown."

"Thanks, Justine," she said, bowing her head slightly. "I couldn't have hit those transitions without you guys carrying me. Literally."

The group laughed, a collective sound of deep voices and easy camaraderie. There was no weird tension yet, just the relief of a job well done. They were colleagues—professionals at the top of their game.

Tyler, who stood a towering six-foot-four and was covered in intricate tattoos, stretched his arms over his head, his joints cracking. "I’m starving, man. They didn't even feed us backstage."

"Shabu-shabu," Jennie announced suddenly, the decision popping into her head. She looked at her phone, seeing a missed text from her boyfriend in Seoul—a simple 'Good luck tonight.' She felt a pang of guilt, followed quickly by the justification that she was just treating her team. "I know a place. Private. Let me treat you guys. You earned it."

Khalil, the shortest of the group at six-foot-even but lean and wiry, raised an eyebrow. "You sure, Jennie? Management usually has a fit about curfew."

"Screw curfew," Jennie said, waving a hand dismissively. She pulled up her messaging app and typed quickly. *'Taking the dancers to dinner. Give us the night off. No staff.'* She hit send to her manager and then did the same to her bodyguard. "I’m the boss tonight. Just us."

The dancers exchanged glances, shrugging and nodding. It was a generous offer, and the fatigue in their bones was fighting a losing battle against their hunger.

"Kagaya in Ginza," Justine suggested, his voice calm and steady. "Best beef in the city. They have a private VIP room on the rooftop. Very discreet."

"Sounds perfect," Jennie said. "Let's go."

They moved as a pack through the service exit. The contrast in size was comical as they hit the street; Jennie, at five-foot-three and barely forty-eight kilograms, looked like a child walking beside a football team. She had to skip slightly to keep up with their long strides as they navigated the Tokyo crowds outside the venue.

The private van, a black Toyota Alphard, was idling at the curb. The driver usually waited for instructions, but Jennie waved him off. "I'll tell you where to go."

Jennie climbed into the very back, sinking into the leather seat with a sigh of relief. Justine slid in beside her, while the other five—Marcus, Tyler, Devon, Jamal, and Khalil—piled into the middle row. The van’s suspension groaned and dipped low under their combined weight.

As the doors slid shut with a heavy, expensive thump, the noise of the city vanished. The air conditioning kicked in, cooling their heated skin.

"So, Osaka," Devon started, breaking the silence. He was the playful one, always quick with a joke. "You think they can handle that pyro cue we fixed today?"

"If the tech crew there is half as competent as these guys, maybe," Jennie replied, resting her head against the window. She watched the Tokyo skyline blur by—a river of neon and steel. "I'm just glad I don't have to fly out until tomorrow afternoon."

"You need the rest," Tyler said from the front seat, his voice deep and gravelly. "You were pushing it hard tonight."

"It's the job," Jennie said noncommittally. She checked her phone again, hovering over her boyfriend's name, but ultimately locked the screen and put it away. Tonight was about team bonding.

The conversation flowed easily, covering everything from the ridiculousness of some of the stage outfits to the best convenience store snacks in Japan. Justine sat quietly beside her, answering when spoken to but mostly content to watch the city pass. Jennie respected him immensely; he was reliable, never missed a mark, and kept the other guys in line. Right now, that was all he was to her—a dependable senior colleague.

The van merged onto the Shuto Expressway, speeding toward the glittering district of Ginza. The atmosphere was relaxed, bordering on sleepy. They were just seven tired workers heading to dinner, the massive physical disparity between the tiny idol and the six athletes nothing more than a fact of their professional existence.

"Kagaya," the driver announced a few minutes later, pulling the van to the curb in front of a traditional, multi-story building with a wooden facade and a glowing lantern out front.

Jennie sat up straighter, peering out the tinted window. "We're here."

"Alright," Marcus said, rubbing his hands together. "Let's eat."

Jennie opened the van door, the humid night air rushing in to meet her. She stepped out, smoothing down her skirt, flanked by the towering wall of her dancers. It looked innocent enough—a celebratory dinner for a hardworking crew. The streets of Ginza were busy, oblivious to the tiny K-pop star and the six men walking behind her as they headed toward the entrance, unaware that the night was about to take a sharp, intoxicating turn.

Chapter 2:

The transition from the bustling Ginza street into the hushed, dimly lit interior of Kagaya was like stepping into a different world. The air instantly smelled of high-quality charcoal, sesame oil, and the faint, sweet scent of straw tatami. The staff, dressed in immaculate kimono, bowed deeply as Jennie entered, her presence instantly recognized despite the lack of her usual entourage. She pulled the brim of her cap lower, offering a shy smile, while the six dancers filed in behind her like a wall of security.

They were guided away from the main dining hall, past rows of secluded booths, toward a private elevator at the back. The ride up was silent, save for the soft hum of the machinery and the heavy breathing of Tyler, who was still cooling down from the performance. When the doors slid open, they were greeted by a hostess who led them down a narrow, lantern-lit hallway to the very end of the building.

She slid open a heavy wooden door, revealing the VIP rooftop suite.

"Please," the hostess said softly, stepping aside.

Jennie stepped in first, kicking off her platform heels at the entrance. The room was breathtaking in its simplicity. The floor was covered in fresh, pale green tatami mats that smelled faintly of new grass. In the center sat a low, lacquered black table, surrounded by plush Zaisu chairs—legless seats with backs for support. Along one wall, a series of *shoji* screens framed a panoramic view of the Tokyo skyline, the city lights blurring into a sea of gold and blue against the night sky. The Tokyo Tower stood distinct in the distance, a glowing orange spire.

It was an island of silence. No other guests, no street noise. Just the room and the city.

"Wow," Devon whistled, ducking his head slightly as he entered the doorway. "This is what I call a celebration."

The dancers navigated the room with surprising grace for their size, removing their sneakers and lining them up neatly by the door. They settled around the low table, the furniture creaking under their weight. Jennie took her place at the head of the table, tucking her legs beneath her on the cushion. Even sitting, she was barely eye-level with their chests, emphasizing the sheer scale difference in the intimate setting.

A server arrived, a stoic older man who placed a large, iron pot in the center of the table, connected to a gas burner beneath the floorboards. He then began to bring out the platters.

First came the vegetables: crisp crown daisies, shiitake mushrooms, tofu, and thick negi onions arranged with geometric precision. Then came the seafood—slices of fresh scallop and crab. Finally, the main event: a platter of A5 Wagyu beef. The meat was marbled with fat so thick it looked like pink lace, glowing under the warm lights of the room.

"And the drinks," Jennie said, looking at the server with a smile. "The biggest bottle of your premium Junmai Daiginjo you have. And... keep them coming. We're thirsty."

The server bowed and returned moments later with a ceramic bottle that looked like a piece of art, filled with clear, chilled sake, and small ceramic cups for everyone.

Once the staff retreated and the door clicked shut, the atmosphere relaxed completely.

"I haven't eaten since breakfast," Marcus admitted, reaching for the tongs. "Who's cooking?"

"I will," Jennie said, taking the tongs from him. "I'm the only one with the technique here."

The others laughed, watching as she swirled a slice of the beef into the boiling *kombu* broth. The broth hissed and popped, the scent of savory steam rising instantly.

"Thirty seconds," she murmured, dipping the meat in and out rhythmically. "Dip it in the ponzu sauce."

She handed the first slice to Justine, who sat to her right.

"Thanks, Jennie," he said, dipping the meat into the small bowl of citrusy sauce before popping it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, closing his eyes for a second. "That's incredible."

They ate with the ravenous appetite of athletes. The sound of slurping broth, the clink of ceramic cups, and the occasional exclamation of satisfaction filled the room. The sake flowed freely, the bottle being emptied and replaced with startling speed.

"So," Tyler said, wiping his mouth with a napkin, his deep voice vibrating through the table. "Jennie. You remember that show in Bangkok last year? When the pyro didn't go off and you had to improvise that dance break?"

Jennie giggled, covering her mouth as she swallowed a piece of tofu. "Don't remind me! I was so scared I was going to slip on the dry ice fog. But you guys covered it so well."

"You were dancing on air, though," Jamal chimed in. He had dreadlocks tied back in a bun, his posture slouched comfortably on the cushion. "We were just trying not to get kicked in the face."

"You have fast reflexes," Jennie teased, pouring more sake into his cup. The alcohol was hitting her, but she still felt in control—just a warm, buzzing sensation in her fingertips.

"Hey, remember the hotel bar in Seoul?" Khalil asked, leaning forward with a mischievous grin. "When you tried to teach us that TikTok dance?"

"Don't," Jennie warned, pointing a chopstick at him, though she was smiling. "I was drunk that night, too."

"You're always fun when you're tipsy," Khalil said. "Looser. You smile more."

"I smile plenty!" Jennie protested, pouting playfully.

"Sure, sure," Devon laughed, clinking his cup against hers. "To tonight, then. Great show."

"To Tokyo," Justine added, raising his cup. He looked calm, his eyes scanning the room, seemingly at ease.

"To Tokyo," they all chorused.

The hours seemed to melt away. The broth in the pot reduced, becoming richer and more savory with every dip of the beef and vegetables. The city lights outside flickered through the shoji screens, casting long, soft shadows across the tatami. The physical fatigue from the concert was being replaced by a heavy, contented lethargy.

They moved from work talk to personal stories—games of basketball they played, places they wanted to visit, movies they’d seen. Jennie felt comfortable, surrounded by these men who she trusted implicitly with her physical safety on stage. They were her brothers in arms, her support system. There was no hint of malice in their eyes, just genuine affection and the buzz of good alcohol.

She texted her boyfriend quickly under the table: *'Dinner with the team. Be back late. Love you.'* She hit send, feeling a strange mix of guilt and relief that she didn't have to explain exactly where she was.

"More sake," Jennie announced, seeing the bottom of the current bottle. "I'm not even close to tired yet."

"You're a lightweight, Jennie," Marcus teased gently. "You sure?"

"I'm Korean, Marcus," she retorted, her voice rising slightly in pitch. "We drink from birth. Bring it on."

The server entered silently, replaced the bottle, and vanished just as quickly. The atmosphere was growing louder, the laughter coming easier. The boundaries between idol and backup dancer were dissolving in the steam and the sake.

Jennie leaned back on her hands, looking at the six of them. They looked massive, even sitting down. Their shoulders blocked the light behind them, making them feel like the only things in the room besides her.

"You guys are the best," she said, her words slurring just the tiniest bit. "Seriously. Best dance team ever."

"We know," Tyler joked, flexing his arm. "It's the muscle."

Jennie laughed, a bright, clear sound. "Okay, okay. Show off. But seriously... cheers again."

She downed her cup in one go, the clear liquid burning a pleasant path down her throat. She reached for the bottle to pour another, her hand trembling slightly.

"Let me," Justine said, taking the bottle from her gently. He refilled her cup, his hand brushing against hers. His skin was warm, dry. "Don't want you to spill on the Chanel."

"Oppa," she whined softly, using the term instinctively out of habit and drink. "I'm not a baby."

Justine just smirked, a subtle, knowing expression that he quickly masked by taking a drink himself. "I know, Jennie. I know."

The room felt smaller suddenly, the air heavier. The alcohol was a warm tide rising up to meet her, loosening the screws in her brain. She looked at the sake bottle, then at the men waiting for her to drink again. She didn't notice the way their eyes were lingering on her a little longer now, the way the air of professionalism was thinning under the influence of the premium sake.

"Just one more round," she said, her voice taking on a high, girlish lilt. "Then we tell secrets."

Chapter 3:

The bottle of Junmai Daiginjo was empty, and another stood in its place, already half-drained. The steam from the shabu-shabu pot had mostly evaporated, leaving only rich, savory scents clinging to the wood and paper of the room. The conversation had lulled, replaced by a comfortable, heavy silence broken only by the clink of ceramic cups meeting the table.

Jennie felt the shift before she saw it. It started as a distinct warming of her ears, a tingling at the tips of her fingers that spread rapidly up her arms. The room, previously sharp and clear, seemed to soften at the edges. The geometric patterns of the tatami mats swam gently in her peripheral vision.

"Your turn, Jennie," Khalil said, his voice sounding like it was coming from underwater. He slid the bottle toward her.

She blinked, her heavy lashes fluttering rapidly as she tried to focus on the neck of the bottle. It was suddenly a very complex task. She reached out, her hand clumsy, and wrapped her fingers around the cool ceramic.

"Okay, okay," she said, but the voice that came out wasn't her usual cool, husky tone. It was higher, thinner, bouncing around the room like a helium balloon.

She poured the sake into her cup, splashing a little onto the lacquered table. "Oopsie," she giggled, the sound escaping her lips unbidden. She looked up at the men, her eyes wide and glassy, devoid of the sharp calculation that usually defined her public persona.

"Oppa, I spilled," she pouted, looking at Marcus.

"It's just a little, Jen," Marcus said, his voice low and easy, but he didn't look away. His eyes were tracking the movement of her hand, the way her body swayed slightly even though she was sitting.

Jennie brought the cup to her lips and tilted her head back, draining it in one go. The liquid burned, hot and sweet, hitting her stomach like a stone. The rush was immediate. It felt like a warm blanket had been thrown over her brain, silencing the noise, silencing the worry about her boyfriend, silencing the strict adherence to her idol image.

She slumped forward, resting her elbows on the table, her chin in her palms. "I feel... floaty," she announced to the room. "Like I'm a balloon."

Tyler laughed, a deep rumble in his chest. "That's the good stuff, Jennie. You're feeling the vibe."

"I like the vibe," she said, nodding vigorously. Her long black hair slipped over her shoulder, tickling her nose. She blew at it impatiently, a childlike gesture of annoyance.

Justine, sitting to her right, watched her with a predatory stillness. He had noticed the transition—the way her defenses had crumbled in the span of ten minutes. She wasn't the boss anymore. She was a doll left unattended on the shelf.

"More?" Justine asked, holding up the bottle. His tone was soft, almost cajoling.

Jennie's eyes lit up. She clapped her hands together, a small, delighted sound. "Yes, please! Justine-oppa is so nice."

She turned her body toward him, forgetting entirely about the food or the other men. Her eyes locked onto his face, and a flush rose on her cheeks that had nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with the sudden, overwhelming adoration she felt for him. In her drunken state, the professional distance evaporated, replaced by a schoolyard crush intensity.

"You're my favorite," she whispered loudly, leaning in close. She smelled like expensive perfume and the sharp tang of alcohol. "Did you know that?"

Justine smirked, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. "I had a feeling. Why me?"

"Because," Jennie said, reaching out a small finger to poke his chest through his t-shirt. "You're strong. And you catch me when I jump. And you have nice eyes." She traced the outline of his pectoral muscle, her touch light and wandering.

The other men watched. The air in the room had changed. It was thick, charged with a sudden, electric tension. They were predators sensing a shift in the wind. They could see she was gone—blacked out, operating on pure instinct and intoxication.

"Hey, what about me?" Devon called out from across the table, though his eyes were dark, fixed on the way Jennie was practically drooling over Justine.

Jennie stuck her tongue out at him, a childish act of defiance. "You're okay too. But Justine is the best."

She struggled to sit up straight, the gravity of the situation lost on her. "I want to sit there," she announced, pointing to Justine's lap.

Before Justine could respond, she was moving. She crawled across the tatami mats on her hands and knees, her movements clumsy but determined. Her short skirt rode up high, exposing the curve of her ass and the tops of her thighs, framed by the sheer black tights. She didn't seem to notice or care about the exposure.

She reached Justine and clambered up, swinging one leg over his to settle herself sideways on his lap. She wrapped her arms around his neck, snuggling into his chest like a toddler seeking comfort.

"You're warm," she murmured into his neck, her breath hot against his skin.

Justine didn't push her away. Instead, his large hands settled on her waist, his fingers spanning her entire midsection. He looked down at her, seeing the heavy-lidded eyes, the parted lips, the absolute lack of inhibition.

"You're drunk, Jennie," he said quietly, his hand sliding down from her waist to rest on her hip, his thumb rubbing the bare skin where her crop top had ridden up.

"Mmhmm," she hummed, vibrating against his chest. "Drunk is fun. Drunk is happy." She leaned back to look at him, her face inches from his. "Are we playing a game, Justine-oppa?"

"Maybe," Justine said, his eyes flicking briefly to the other guys. They were watching, rapt, waiting for the signal. Marcus was swirling the sake in his cup, his jaw set. Tyler had leaned forward, elbows on knees, his gaze intense.

"What kind of game?" she asked, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. She wiggled her hips on his lap, the friction unintentional but undeniable. "I like games."

Justine’s grip tightened on her hip. He brought his other hand up, cupping her breast over the fabric of the Chanel crop top. It was a bold move, a line crossing that couldn't be uncrossed.

Jennie gasped, a sharp intake of breath, but she didn't pull away. She looked down at his hand, then back up at him, her eyes wide with a faux innocence that was devastatingly erotic.

"That feels funny," she giggled, the sound high and breathless. "But... nice."

She pressed her chest forward into his palm, encouraging the contact. "Do it again?"

Justine squeezed, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, feeling the hard nub of her nipple through the layers of fabric. He could feel her heart hammering against his ribs.

"You like that?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave, becoming husky.

"Mmhmm... it tickles," she whined softly, biting her lip. "But I like it."

She looked around the room at the other men, her gaze hazy and unfocused. "Are you all watching? Is this the game?"

"Yeah, Jennie," Khalil said, his voice tight. "We're playing."

"Yay," she clapped her hands softly, keeping her balance on Justine's lap by wrapping her arm tighter around his neck. "I want everyone to feel good too."

She looked back at Justine, her eyes swimming. "Oppa, can I have more sake? Please? It makes me feel tingly all over."

Justine reached for the bottle on the table, not taking his eyes off her. "You can have whatever you want, Jennie."

He brought the cup to her lips, and she drank greedily, the sake spilling over her chin and dripping down onto her neck and his shirt. She didn't wipe it away. She just smiled, a messy, wet, utterly uninhibited smile.

"You're so messy," Justine murmured, wiping her chin with his thumb.

"I'm sorry," she pouted, looking up at him with those wide, pleading eyes. "Don't be mad at me, Oppa."

"I'm not mad," he assured her, his hand sliding down her side, under the hem of her cropped top, tracing the warm skin of her lower back. "You're being a very good girl."

The words hit her like a drug. She shuddered, her body going limp against his. "I am? I'm a good girl?"

"Yes," the room seemed to echo the sentiment. She could hear the other guys shifting, the rustle of clothes, the heavy silence of anticipation.

She was completely oblivious to the danger. She was drunk, flirty, and locked in a bubble of affection for the man holding her. She had no idea that the friendly dinner was over, and the night was just beginning. The switch had flipped, and there was no going back.

"Can we play more?" she asked, nuzzling her face into his neck, inhaling his scent deeply. "I want to play more."

Chapter 4:

The room was spinning, a slow, lazy carousel of paper screens and city lights, but Jennie didn't mind. She felt weightless, anchored only by the strong arms of Justine and the burning heat in her belly. The sake had melted her bones, turning her into a pliable, willing puddle on his lap.

"Oppa," she whined, grinding her hips down unconsciously against the hardness she felt beneath her. "It's poking me. Is that your... thingie?"

Justine chuckled, a dark, rasping sound that seemed to vibrate through her chest. His hands were roaming freely now, one cupping her ass through the skirt, the other sliding under her crop top to trace the ridges of her ribs. "Yeah, Jen. That's it. You made it like that."

"I did?" She giggled, hiding her face in his neck, inhaling the musk of his sweat and cologne. "I'm magic."

"You have no idea," Marcus groaned from across the table. He stood up, the movement sudden and jarring in the quiet room. He was tall, towering over them, his shadow stretching across the tatami. "Enough teasing, man. Let's see what she's working with."

Jennie blinked, looking up at Marcus with wide, confused eyes. "Working with?"

"Show them, Jennie," Justine commanded softly, his voice brooking no argument despite its gentle tone. He gripped the hem of her Chanel crop top. "Arms up."

"Like a game?" she asked, her voice small and eager. "A magic trick?"

"Exactly. A magic trick."

She raised her arms obediently, her movements clumsy and fluid. Justine peeled the tight black fabric up and over her head, tossing it carelessly onto the floor. The air in the room hit her bare skin, cool against the flush of her alcohol-induced fever. She wasn't wearing a bra underneath the stage outfit—something about the lines of the costume—and her small, perky tits were exposed to the six hungry stares.

"Fuck," Tyler whispered, the word hanging in the air like smoke. "Look at those nipples."

Jennie looked down at herself, then back at the men, a shy smile playing on her lips. "They're cold," she pouted. "Can you warm them up?"

Justine didn't hesitate. He leaned down, taking one of the small, dark buds into his mouth, sucking hard. The sensation shot through Jennie like an electric current, making her back arch and her legs twitch.

"Ahhh!" she cried out, her hands flying to his shaved head, fingers digging into his scalp. "Oppa! It tickles... it feels funny... don't stop..."

As Justine feasted on her chest, the other men began to move. They formed a loose circle around the low table, closing in the space. The atmosphere shifted from playful to predatory in a heartbeat. The air grew thick with the scent of male arousal and the tangy sweetness of spilled sake.

"Skirt," Khalil demanded, his voice rougher now. "Take it off."

Jennie squirmed on Justine's lap, the heat between her legs becoming unbearable. She felt an ache, a deep throbbing emptiness that needed to be filled. "Okay, okay... you're so bossy."

She fumbled with the zipper on the side of her mini-skirt, her fingers slipping. Justine, impatient, batted her hands away and ripped it down himself. The sheer black tights underneath were the only barrier left. He hooked his fingers into the waistband and pulled, the fabric tearing with a satisfying *snrrrt*.

"My tights!" she gasped, though there was no real distress in her voice, only a bubbly surprise. "Those were expensive!"

"I'll buy you new ones," Justine grunted, tearing the nylon away from her legs until she was naked from the waist down, save for her socks.

She was completely bare now, exposed to the cool air and the scorching gazes of the six men. Her pussy was smooth, waxed bare, the lips glistening with her own arousal. She was tiny—a fragile doll in the lap of a giant.

"Lay her down," Jamal said, stepping closer. He had pulled his shirt off, revealing a chiseled torso that glistened under the soft lights.

Justine shifted, lifting her easily as if she weighed nothing, and laid her back on the tatami mats. The straw was rough against her bare skin, a prickly contrast to the softness of the cushions. She looked up at them, her vision swimming, seeing six looming silhouettes blocking out the city lights.

"Is everyone going to play?" she asked, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and anticipation. She felt so small, so overwhelmed, but the alcohol kept the panic at bay, replacing it with a fluttery excitement.

"All of us, baby," Marcus said, dropping to his knees beside her head. "We're all gonna play."

He unbuttoned his jeans, pulling them down along with his boxers. His cock sprang free, thick and dark, already leaking precum. It slapped heavily against his thigh with a dull thud.

Jennie’s eyes went wide. She stared at it, mesmerized. It was massive—easily twice the size of her boyfriend's. The sheer girth of it made her mouth water and her throat tighten simultaneously.

"It's... it's so big," she breathed, reaching out a trembling hand to touch it. "Like a big black mushroom." She giggled, the sound high-pitched and delirious. "Much bigger than my boyfriend's. His is like a little cocktail sausage. This is... a kielbasa."

The guys laughed, the sound deep and cruel.

"You think that's big?" Tyler said from her other side. He had freed himself too, his nine-inch monster standing at attention. "Wait 'til you see Jamal."

Jennie turned her head, her eyes widening even further. "Oh my... is it a game? Who fits?"

"Just open up, Jen," Marcus commanded, gripping the base of his shaft and guiding the swollen head toward her lips.

She parted her lips obediently, her jaw stretching wide to accommodate him. He tasted salty, musky, and overwhelmingly male. She moaned around the intrusion, the sound vibrating through his length.

"Yeah, that's it," Marcus groaned, pushing deeper. "Take it."

While Marcus began to fuck her mouth with slow, deliberate thrusts, Justine settled between her legs. He pushed her thighs open, revealing her pink, glistening center. She was so small compared to him, her hips narrow, her legs slender.

"Look at this pretty little pussy," Justine muttered, almost to himself. He ran a thumb up her slit, collecting her wetness. "Tightest thing in Tokyo."

"Oppa... please," Jennie whined around Marcus's cock, her hips bucking upward instinctively. "I feel empty. Put it in. Please?"

Justine didn't need to be asked twice. He lined himself up, the thick, bulbous head of his nine-inch cock pressing against her entrance. He pushed forward slowly, letting her feel every inch as she stretched around him.

"Fuck," he hissed as the head popped inside. "She's gripping like a vice."

Jennie gasped, her back arching off the mats. The stretch was intense, a burning sensation that bordered on pain but dissolved rapidly into a blinding pleasure. "Ohhh! It's... it's splitting me! Oppa, it's too big!"

"You can take it," Justine grunted, gripping her hips hard enough to leave bruises. He pushed in deeper, inch by inch, burying himself to the hilt.

Jennie let out a muffled scream, her eyes rolling back. She felt impaled, stuffed to the brim. The sensation of being so full, so dominated, triggered something primal in her. Her pussy clenched down hard around him, rippling along his length.

"That's it," Tyler laughed, stroking himself as he watched the show. "She loves it. Look at her squeezing him."

"Move, Oppa, move," Jennie begged, her voice garbled by the cock in her mouth. She reached down, grabbing Justine’s ass, trying to pull him deeper. "Fuck meeee~"

Justine withdrew almost entirely, leaving just the tip inside, then slammed forward. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed through the room, loud and wet.

*Thwack.*

"Ungh!" Jennie cried out.

*Thwack.*

"Yes! Yes!"

He set a brutal rhythm, his hips snapping forward with the force of a jackhammer. The tatami mats creaked beneath them. Marcus matched his pace, fucking her face with equal vigor, pushing deeper until she was gagging, tears streaming down her face.

The room filled with the symphony of their debauchery: the wet slurping of her mouth, the squelching of her pussy, the grunts of the men, and Jennie’s high-pitched, breathless moans.

"Switch," Justine commanded suddenly, pulling out. Her pussy gaped open for a second, red and swollen, before clenching shut, a string of wetness connecting them.

Jennie whimpered at the loss, her hips bucking at the empty air. "No... come back..."

"I got her," Khalil said, taking Justine's place between her legs.

He was thick, with a slight upward curve. He slid in easily, her juices coating his path. "Damn, she's soaking wet. This bitch is loving this."

"She's a natural born slut," Devon agreed, climbing onto the table to kneel above her chest. He grabbed her small tits, wrapping them around his shaft. "Tittyfuck me, Jennie. Push them together."

She obeyed mindlessly, pressing her palms against the sides of her breasts, creating a soft tunnel for him. He thrust forward, the head of his cock poking out from between her cleavage to hit her chin.

"Heehee," she giggled, the sound broken and breathless. "It's peeking at me."

Khalil was pounding her now, his balls slapping against her ass. "You like this, you little Korean doll? You like this big black dick?"

"Yes! Yes!" she screamed, her voice cracking. "Oppa, it's so good! It's so much better than... ooooh!"

She didn't finish the sentence, but they all knew what she meant. The contrast, the sheer size difference, the taboo of it all—it was intoxicating. She was being used, passed around like a toy, and in her drunken haze, it was the greatest game she had ever played.

"Cum for us," Tyler demanded, standing over her and jerking his cock furiously. "Cum on that dick, Jennie."

The command pushed her over the edge. Her body seized up, her toes curling, her back arching into a tight bow. "AAAAHH! OPPA! I'M... I'M PEeing!"

She squirted, a clear stream of fluid shooting out to soak Khalil’s stomach and thighs. The force of it surprised them all, coating the mats beneath her in a slick mess.

"Holy shit," Khalil laughed, not stopping his thrusts. "She's a squirter! Fucking nasty."

"She's drenching the place," Marcus added, pulling his cock out of her mouth and stroking it over her face. "Open wide, baby. Time for dessert."

Jennie stuck her tongue out, panting like a dog. "Yummy... gimme..."

Marcus groaned, his body tensing. Thick ropes of white cum exploded from his tip, painting her face. It coated her forehead, her cheeks, her nose, and landed in her open mouth. She swallowed greedily, humming with pleasure.

"So much," she giggled, licking her lips. "It's warm and salty..."

The sight of her cum-covered face, combined with the pulsing grip of her spasming pussy, sent Khalil over the edge. He buried himself deep inside her, his hips stuttering.

"Take it! Take this load!" he roared.

Jennie felt it—a hot, flooding sensation deep inside her belly. He pulsed and throbbed, filling her up with his seed.

"Ohhh," she cooed, her eyes fluttering shut. "It's warm... it's bubbling inside me..."

Khalil pulled out, a thick glob of cum immediately leaking out of her, running down her ass crack to pool on the tatami.

"Next," Justine said, his voice calm but commanding. "Don't let her cool down."

"Me," Jamal said, stepping forward. His dreadlocks brushed against his shoulders. He flipped her over effortlessly, positioning her on her hands and knees. "Ass up, face down. You know the drill."

Jennie collapsed onto her elbows, her ass high in the air. She looked back at him, her eyes dazed and happy. "Is it your turn, Mr. Dreadlock-Oppa? Are you gonna put your big thingie in me too?"

"I'm gonna put it right here," Jamal said, spreading her ass cheeks to reveal her tiny, puckered hole.

Jennie gasped. "Not there! That's the exit only!"

"Not tonight, baby," Jamal grinned. "Tonight, you're our property. Every hole is an entrance."

He spat on her asshole, working the saliva in with his thumb. Jennie whimpered, but she didn't pull away. She was too far gone, too drunk on pleasure and submission.

"Be gentle?" she asked in a tiny voice.

"Maybe," Jamal said, lining up his massive, nine-and-a-half-inch cock with her back entrance. "But I doubt it."

He pushed forward. Jennie cried out, a raw, primal sound, as her asshole was stretched to its limit.

"Fuck! It's too big! It's ripping me!" she screamed, burying her face in the crook of her arm.

"Relax," Devon commanded, grabbing her hair and lifting her head. He slid under her, positioning his cock at her pussy. "We're just getting started, Jennie. You've got four more of us to go."

As Jamal buried himself in her ass and Devon thrust up into her pussy, Jennie’s vision went white. She was sandwiched between two massive bodies, impaled on two giant cocks, completely overwhelmed.

"Heehee," she giggled deliriously, tears streaming down her face mixed with Marcus's cum. "I'm a hotdog... I'm a stuffed hotdog..."

The men laughed, the sound echoing in the room as they began to move in rhythm, using her body with rough, relentless abandon. The night was young, and she was nowhere near done.

* * *

The rhythm was relentless. Jamal and Devon found a syncopated beat, a primal drumming of flesh against flesh that rattled Jennie’s small frame. Every time Jamal thrust forward into her ass, he forced her down onto Devon’s cock, impaling her between them.

"Look at this," Tyler grunted, moving around with his phone in hand, the camera flash illuminating the scene in blinding strobes. "Look at that belly bulge. She's taking it all."

Jennie couldn't see the screen, but she could feel it. The pressure in her abdomen was intense, a dull ache that bordered on nausea but transformed into a sickeningly sweet pleasure. She felt like a ragdoll, her limbs loose and useless, her body existing solely for their use.

"Oppa... I'm so full..." she whined, her voice muffled by Devon's shoulder, which she was biting down on to stifle her screams. "It's... it's poking my tummy!"

"That's my dick, baby," Devon groaned, gripping her hips and slamming up into her. "Right where it belongs."

Jamal was losing his rhythm. His breathing became ragged, his grip on her ass cheeks tightening until his fingers dug into her soft flesh, leaving crescent-shaped bruises. "Fuck. I'm gonna bust. Take this nut, you little slut."

He buried himself to the hilt with a guttural roar, holding himself deep inside her colon. Jennie felt the hot, thick spurts of cum painting her insides, coating her walls in warmth. It was a strange, alien sensation, triggering another involuntary shiver through her body.

"Ohhh... it's hot..." she gasped, her eyes rolling back. "It's filling up my butt..."

Jamal pulled out slowly, his cock making a wet, popping sound. A thick river of milky cum immediately followed, leaking out of her gaping asshole and running down to join the mess around her pussy.

"Clean him off," Justine ordered, standing over them. "Show some appreciation."

Dazed, Jennie turned her head. Jamal presented his softening, cum-covered cock to her lips. She didn't hesitate. She opened her mouth and sucked him clean, tasting her own ass and his salty seed, humming happily as if she were enjoying a lollipop.

"Good girl," Jamal panted, pulling away and staggering back to sit on a cushion, wiping sweat from his brow.

Before she could catch her breath, Devon was moving. "My turn to switch. Tyler, get in here."

Tyler grabbed her, his large hands encircling her waist. He lifted her into the air as effortlessly as if she were a feather pillow. He was huge—six-foot-four of solid ink and muscle. He sat down on the zabuton cushion, legs spread wide, and positioned her over his lap, facing away from him.

"Ride it," he commanded.

Jennie, dripping with sweat and the cum of two men, reached down between her legs to guide him. His cock was a monster, thick and veined, the head angry and purple. She sank down onto it, her pussy already stretched and sloppy, making the entry easy but the sheer volume overwhelming.

"Ooooh!" she cried out, her head falling back against his shoulder. "It's so deep, Tyler-Oppa! You're hitting my tummy button!"

Tyler wrapped one arm around her waist, pinning her arms to her sides, and used his other hand to grab her hair, pulling her head back. "Then bounce, bitch. Make me feel good."

She began to move, her legs trembling with the effort. Her tiny body looked obscene perched on top of him, her legs splayed wide, her pussy lips stretched thin around his thick shaft.

"Not enough," Justine said, stepping in front of them. His cock was hard again, pointing straight at her face. "Open up, Jennie. You know what to do."

Jennie looked up at him with glassy, adoring eyes. "Justine-Oppa... my favorite..."

She opened her mouth wide, her jaw aching. Justine thrust forward, burying himself in her throat. She gagged, her throat convulsing around him, but he held her head steady, fucking her face with deep, punishing strokes.

Now she was airtight again—Tyler in her pussy, Justine in her mouth. The room was a cacophony of wet, slapping sounds, grunts, and her muffled whimpers.

"Look at her go," Khalil said from the sidelines, stroking his revived erection. "She can't get enough."

Suddenly, the shoji screen at the far end of the room rattled slightly as a gust of wind hit the rooftop. The sound made them all pause for a split second, but Jennie was too far gone to notice or care. She was locked in a haze of dopamine and endorphins.

Justine pulled out of her mouth, strings of saliva connecting her lips to his cock. "Turn her around," he told Tyler. "I want her ass."

They maneuvered her like a piece of furniture. Tyler spun her on his lap so she was facing him, his cock still buried deep in her cunt. He leaned back, pulling her chest flush against his, which exposed her ass to the air behind her.

Justine knelt behind her. Her asshole was still gaping, leaking Jamal's load. He didn't care. He spit on his hand, lubed up his nine-inch shaft, and pressed against the used entrance.

"No, no, no," Jennie whimpered weakly into Tyler's chest. "Two... two in the bottom... is too much..."

"You can take it," Justine growled, pushing forward.

The scream was silent at first, just an open-mouthed gasp for air. As Justine slid into her ass alongside Tyler’s cock in her pussy, her eyes bulged. The double penetration was tighter this way, her insides compressed to the limit.

"Fuck, I can feel you, man," Tyler groaned, gritting his teeth. "She's so fucking tight."

"Just... move... slow..." Jennie begged, tears leaking from her eyes. "I'm gonna break... I'm a tiny girl..."

"You're not breaking," Justine said, grabbing her shoulders and beginning to thrust. "You're just getting what you need."

They found a rhythm again, a seesaw of thrusts that left her constantly full. Every time one pulled out, the other pushed in. The friction was unbearable, sending sparks of white-hot pleasure/pain shooting up her spine.

"I'm... I'm gonna..." Jennie's body seized up. "Oppa! I'm gonna make water again!"

"Squirt on that dick," Tyler commanded.

She exploded again, her juices spraying out around Tyler’s cock, soaking his thighs and the mat beneath them. Her body convulsed, shaking violently between the two men, but they held her tight, pinning her in place, using her spasming muscles to milk their own orgasms.

Tyler was the first to go. "I'm breeding this pussy. Take it!"

He slammed up into her, his hips lifting off the mat. Jennie felt the hot rush of cum flooding her womb, mixing with Khalil's load from earlier. The sheer volume was unimaginable.

"Yes! Fill me up!" she screamed, her voice hoarse. "Make it all warm inside!"

Seconds later, Justine grunted, burying himself deep in her ass. "Fuck! Take it, Jennie!"

He pulsed, adding his thick load to Jamal's in her bowels.

Jennie collapsed, utterly limp. She was a ragdoll soaked in sweat, cum, and her own fluids. She was leaking from every hole, a messy, debauched masterpiece.

But they weren't done.

"Bring her here," Marcus said. He had moved to the low table, clearing the dishes aside. "Put her on the edge."

Strong hands lifted her. She was placed on her back on the lacquered table, her head hanging off the edge. The wood was cold against her overheated skin, hard against her spine.

She looked up, seeing the world upside down. Above her loomed the faces of the men—Marcus, Devon, Khalil, all hard again.

"We gotta mark her properly," Devon said. "Cover her."

"Yay... a shower?" Jennie asked dazedly, sticking her tongue out to lick the drops of sweat falling from Tyler's chest above her.

"A cum shower, baby," Marcus laughed.

They stood around her, jerking their cocks. The sight was surreal—six towering black men surrounding one tiny, prone Korean idol, stroking themselves over her exhausted, cum-splattered body.

"Ready?" Justine asked, his voice steady.

"Give it to me, Oppas," Jennie whined, cupping her small tits in her hands, offering them up. "I want it all over me."

One by one, they came.

It started with Khalil, who shot a thick string across her forehead and nose. Then Tyler, coating her neck and chest. Marcus stepped forward, aiming for her open mouth, filling it to the brim until she had to swallow. Devon and Jamal followed, painting her stomach, her thighs, her legs.

Finally, Justine stepped up. He looked down at her, her eyes closed, her face a mask of white sticky fluid, her chest heaving. He grunted, stroking himself one last time, and added his final load to the collection on her face.

Jennie lay there for a moment, the silence broken only by their heavy breathing. She was unrecognizable. Her hair was matted to her face with cum. Her body was glistening, a canvas of white on tanned skin.

She giggled, a wet, bubbly sound. "I feel like a glazed donut," she murmured, scooping a bit of cum from her cheek and popping it into her mouth. "Tastes... sweet."

The men collapsed back onto the cushions around the room, spent. The tatami mats were ruined, stained with bodily fluids. The air smelled of raw sex and stale sake.

Jennie tried to sit up, but her arms gave out. She slipped in the mess on the table, sliding back down with a soft *thud*.

"Oops," she whispered, closing her eyes, a blissful, fucked-out smile on her face. "Best game ever."

Chapter 5:

The silence in the VIP tatami room was heavy, broken only by the distant hum of the Ginza streets filtering through the shoji screens and the collective, heavy breathing of the six men. Jennie was passed out cold, lying in a fetal position on the lacquered table, her body glistening under the soft lights. She was a mess—cum drying in her hair, matting her eyelashes, smeared across her chest and thighs. The tatami mats beneath her were dark with sweat and fluids, the air thick with the musk of sex and stale alcohol.

"Alright," Justine said, his voice raspy but authoritative as he stood up and fastened his jeans. "Let's get her cleaned up. We can't walk out of here looking like this."

He moved to the corner of the room where a small basin and stack of thick white cotton towels sat on a sideboard. He turned the tap, letting the water run until it was steaming hot.

"Towels," he commanded, tossing a few to Marcus and Tyler. "Get the worst of it off. I'll get her face."

They approached the table with a clinical efficiency, the sexual frenzy replaced by the practical necessity of cleanup. Jennie didn't stir as warm, wet cloths descended on her skin. Tyler wiped down her legs, his movements rough but thorough, scrubbing away the sticky layers of seed and her own juices. Marcus tended to her back and ass, wiping the cum from her thighs and the crease of her buttocks.

Justine climbed onto the table, sitting beside her head. He dampened a cloth and gently began to wipe her face. He started with her forehead, carefully clearing the mask of white fluid from her skin. He wiped her eyes, her cheeks, and her nose, revealing the familiar, delicate features of the K-pop star underneath.

She whimpered slightly, her eyelids fluttering.

"Shh," Justine murmured, dipping the cloth again to wipe her mouth. "We got you, Jennie."

Once she was scrubbed clean—skin pink and slightly abraded from the rough towels but no longer coated in cum—they dressed her. Her stage outfit was ruined, torn and stained. Justine reached into his duffel bag and pulled out a large, oversized black hoodie with a streetwear logo on the front.

"Sit her up," he said.

Between Tyler and Jamal, they propped her up. Justine pulled the hoodie over her head. It swallowed her whole. The hem came down to her mid-thighs, completely covering her skirt-less lower half. They left her barefoot, her socks long lost in the chaos of the gangbang.

"Can you walk?" Justine asked, patting her cheek.

Jennie’s head lolled forward. "Mmm... sleepy," she mumbled, her voice barely a whisper. "Justine-oppa..."

"She's out," Marcus said, shaking his head. "I'll carry her."

Marcus scooped her up effortlessly, one arm under her knees, the other behind her back. She nestled into his chest, her head falling against his shoulder, looking like a child in his arms.

"Let's move," Justine ordered. "Bill's prepaid. Let's take the service elevator."

They filed out of the room, leaving the disaster of the tatami suite behind. The hallway was empty. The ride down in the service elevator was cramped and silent. The driver was waiting at the back dock, the van idling.

They loaded Jennie into the back seat. Justine slid in beside her, laying her head on his lap. The others piled in, the vehicle sagging under their weight. As the driver pulled away, glancing suspiciously at the unconscious idol in the rearview mirror, Justine leaned forward.

"She had too much," he said smoothly, pitching his voice just loud enough to be heard. "Premium sake. She got sick and passed out. We had to clean her up a bit in the bathroom."

The driver’s expression softened from suspicion to professional sympathy. "Ah, happens to the best of them. Rough night?"

"Yeah," Justine said, resting a hand on Jennie’s knee. "Taking her back to her hotel. Just drop us at the main entrance."

The ride to the Grand Hyatt in Roppongi was a blur of streetlights. When they arrived, Justine made the others wait in the van. "I'll take her up. You guys head back."

He carried Jennie through the lobby, her face buried against his chest to avoid the few lingering paparazzi outside. At the reception desk, he kept his voice low and steady.

"Ms. Kim had a bit of an accident with some sake," he told the clerk, flashing a manager's badge he'd kept from a previous gig. "Just need to get her to bed. Don't want to disturb her."

The clerk nodded, eyes wide, and handed over a key card without asking for ID.

In the elevator, alone with her, Justine adjusted his grip. He looked down at her, sleeping peacefully, completely unaware of the wreckage between her thighs.

He took her to her room—a standard executive suite she’d booked for herself—and laid her on the bed. He stripped off the oversized hoodie, leaving her naked on the sheets. He went to the bathroom, started the shower, and came back to carry her in.

The water was hot, washing away the lingering scent of the restaurant and the gangbang. He washed her hair, his fingers massaging her scalp, then ran a soapy loofah between her legs, cleaning the sensitive, swollen flesh one last time.

"Oppa..." she murmured again, her eyes closed, water dripping from her eyelashes. "Love you..."

"I know," he whispered back.

He dried her off, tucked her into the bed, and placed two bottles of water and a bottle of painkillers on the nightstand. Then, he stood there for a moment, looking at her, before turning and walking out the door.

* * *

The sunlight was brutal.

It was 11:30 AM. A sharp, piercing beam of white light cut through a gap in the heavy curtains, striking Jennie squarely in the face.

Jennie groaned, a low, pitiful sound that seemed to vibrate through her entire skull. Her head felt like it was being split open with an axe. She tried to move, but her body protested with a symphony of aches.

Her jaw throbbed with a dull, constant soreness, as if she had been chewing on tire rubber all night. Her throat felt raw, scraped, and painful. She shifted her legs and winced. Her hips felt bruised, the inner tender and chafed. And deeper down, inside, there was a strange, heavy ache—a dull throbbing in her pelvis and a stinging sensation in her rear. It felt like she had been run over by a bulldozer.

She sat up slowly, clutching the silk sheet to her chest. The room spun violently. She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the nausea to pass.

*Water.*

She fumbled blindly for the nightstand, her fingers knocking over one empty bottle. She found the second one, cracked the seal, and drank greedily, the cool water soothing her tortured throat.

As she drank, memories began to claw their way through the fog of the blackout.

The concert... the adrenaline... the dinner. Kagaya.

She remembered the sake. The warm, floaty feeling. Sitting on Justine's lap.

The memory hit her with a jolt of adrenaline. She remembered giggling, flirting. She remembered his hands on her waist, his smell. Then... nothing. Just a black void.

She looked around the room. Her own hotel room. Thank god. But where was Justine?

She lifted the duvet and looked down at herself. She was completely naked. Her skin was clean, but she could see faint marks on her hips—fingerprints, dark and bruising. There was a small red mark on her neck, a hickey she didn't remember getting.

Panic flared in her chest, cold and sharp.

"Oh my god," she whispered.

She looked at the empty side of the bed. The pillow was indented, but cold. He was gone.

"Justine?" she called out, her voice hoarse and cracking. It hurt to speak.

Silence.

She thought back to the fragments she had. Flirting with him. Grinding on his lap. The sheer chemistry they always had on stage. The blackout. The soreness.

The conclusion was immediate and terrifying.

She had brought Justine back to her room. They had fucked.

Her stomach dropped. She had a boyfriend. A serious boyfriend. She had cheated.

"Oh my god," she repeated, her hands shaking. "I'm so stupid."

She threw off the covers and tried to stand. Her knees nearly buckled. Her inner thighs felt chafed and swollen. As she walked toward the bathroom, she felt a thick, warm glob of fluid slide out of her and run down her leg.

She froze, looking down.

A thick, milky string of cum was trailing down her inner thigh.

"Fuck," she whispered, tears pricking her eyes. "We didn't use a condom."

She touched her stomach, which felt slightly bloated and tender. The sheer intensity of the soreness made her wince. It must have been rough. Crazy, drunken, rough sex. That explained the body aches, the bruising, the feeling like she'd been hit by a truck.

She limped into the bathroom, avoiding looking at herself in the mirror, and turned on the shower. She needed to wash away the evidence, the smell, the sin.

As the hot water scalded her skin, her mind raced. *What if he tells people? What if he brags about it? 'I fucked the drunk K-pop star.' It would ruin me. It would destroy my relationship.*

And the pregnancy fear... she wasn't on the pill. She hadn't been for months due to health concerns. They relied on condoms.

"I'm so screwed," she sobbed, sliding down the shower wall to sit on the tiles, the water pounding over her head.

She stayed there until the water ran cold. Then, she dragged herself out, dried off, and wrapped herself in a hotel robe. She sat on the edge of the bed, clutching her phone.

She needed to damage control. She needed to know where she stood with him.

Her hands trembled violently as she typed out a message, deleting it three times before settling on something that sounded casual but was desperate on the inside.

*Last night… we good?*

She hit send, staring at the screen until the dots appeared.

A moment later, the phone buzzed.

*Always, Jennie. Get some rest.*

She let out a breath she felt she’d been holding for hours. He wasn't going to talk. It was safe.

But as she leaned back against the headboard, her body throbbing in places she didn't know could throb, she couldn't shake the feeling of wrongness. The memory loss was total. She had no idea what she had said, what she had done. She just had the feeling that something wild had happened—something wilder than just sex with one man. But she pushed the thought away. The alternative was too terrifying to contemplate.

She closed her eyes, praying the Ibuprofen would kick in soon, and tried to convince herself that everything was going to be okay.

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