ELRYUSE

You'd seen her face everywhere. Billboard in Gangnam. Subway advertisement for soju. The thumbnail of every third video on your YouTube feed. Karina. Yu Ji-min. The face of AESPA, the woman whose wedding had crashed three different entertainment news sites, whose husband, some shipping magnate's son had apparently decided that a wife was something you acquired, not something you maintained.

"That's the job," Senior Park had said. "She called us. Not the other way around. Remember that."

And now here you were, sitting in your Hyundai at the security gate of a house that looked more like a modern art museum, trying to remember how to breathe normally.

The gate buzzed before you could press the intercom.

A woman's voice, softer than you'd expected. "Come in. The front door is around the fountain."

The gate swung open.

The walk from your car to the front door took exactly forty-three steps. You counted them. Anything to keep your mind from spinning out. The fountain in the driveway was one of those minimalist things, a black stone slab with water sheeting down the sides. Classy. Expensive. The kind of thing you could stare at and feel nothing about.

Your professional training ran through your head like a checklist Senior Park had drilled into you months ago. Posture. Eye contact. Don't stare. Let her set the pace. The first meeting is always about making them comfortable enough to admit what they want.

But none of the training had mentioned what to do when Karina opened the door.

She wasn't wearing makeup. That was the first thing you noticed, not what you'd expected. Every image you'd ever seen of her was polished to a high gloss, stage-ready, camera-ready. The woman standing in the doorway had her dark hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, a few strands escaping at the temples. She wore an oversized gray sweater that hung off one shoulder, black leggings, bare feet on the marble floor.

And her face. Jesus Christ, her face.

The bone structure that launched a thousand fan edits. Lips that were slightly chapped, slightly parted. Eyes that held yours with something between curiosity and exhaustion.

"Come in," she said, stepping aside. "Take off your shoes."

You did. Brain on autopilot. The foyer was all white marble and indirect lighting, a staircase curving up into shadow. The house smelled like fresh laundry and something floral… lilies, maybe. A bouquet sat on a console table near the door, still wrapped in cellophane, the card unopened.

"I'm…" you started. "I know who you are." She was already walking toward what looked like a living room. "The agency sent me your file. Do you want something to drink?"

The living room was vast and somehow still felt empty. A sectional sofa big enough for twelve people. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a garden you couldn't see in the dark. No photographs on the walls. No magazines on the coffee table. It looked like a showroom, like no one actually lived here. "Water would be great," you managed.

Karina gestured toward the sofa. "Sit." She disappeared through an archway. You heard water running, the clink of glass. Your heart was doing something ridiculous in your chest—not racing exactly, more like it was trying to relocate to your throat.

The file Senior Park had given you was thin. Married eight months. Husband's name was Lee Joon-ho, heir to Lee Shipping & Logistics. According to the tabloids, he'd been spotted at clubs in Gangnam with actresses whose names you didn't recognize, while Karina attended industry events alone. The word "lonely" appeared in a lot of the articles, usually paired with photos of her looking wistful at award shows. "Here."

She was back, holding two glasses. One water, one something amber. Whiskey, maybe. Your eyes tracked the movement of her bare arm as she set the water down on the coffee table between you. "You're nervous," she said, settling onto the opposite end of the sectional. Not a question.

"A little."

"Why?"

Because you're Karina. Because every man in this country has fantasized about you. Because I'm sitting in your mansion and you're wearing that sweater and I don't know what I'm supposed to do with my hands. "New clients are always nerve-wracking," you said instead. "For both of us."

Something flickered in her expression. Amusement, maybe. Or skepticism. She took a sip of her drink—whiskey, definitely—and let her head rest against the back of the sofa. The movement exposed the long line of her throat, the delicate architecture of her collarbones where the sweater had slipped. "How long have you been doing this?"

"A year."

"And before that?" You hesitated. The training said honesty was valuable, but only in measured doses. "I was a personal trainer. Senior Park recruited me. Said I had the right… temperament."

"Temperament." She said the word like she was tasting it. "Is that what they call it?" The silence stretched. Outside, wind rattled something against the glass—a branch, probably. The house was so quiet you could hear the refrigerator humming from two rooms away.

"Why did you call the agency?" you asked. Karina's gaze slid toward you. "Aren't you supposed to know the answer to that?"

"I'd rather hear it from you." Another sip of whiskey. Her throat moved as she swallowed. "The agency brief didn't tell you?"

"It said you were recently married. It said your husband travels frequently for work."

"Travels." A short laugh, not especially warm. "Is that what they're calling it now?"

You didn't answer. Sometimes silence was the best tool you had. Karina set her glass down on the coffee table with a little more force than necessary. The sound echoed in the cavernous room. "He doesn't travel. He's in Seoul. He just doesn't come home." She was looking at the windows now, at her own reflection in the dark glass. "Three months. I've seen him three times in three months, and each time it was for less than an hour. Photo opportunities, mostly. His PR team coordinates them."

"That sounds lonely." Her jaw tightened. "Don't."

"Don't what?" "Don't do the sympathetic thing. I'm not paying for sympathy."

You shifted on the sofa, turning to face her more directly. "What are you paying for?"

The question landed differently than you'd intended. Karina's eyes snapped to yours, and for a moment the mask slipped—the idol mask, the one she wore in every interview and variety show appearance. Underneath it was something rawer. Something hungry and furious and so tired of pretending. "I want to feel something," she said. "Something that isn't…" She gestured vaguely at the house around her. "This."

"This?"

"Empty." The word came out smaller than the others. She picked up her whiskey again, took a longer drink. "Everything in my life is scheduled and managed and presented to the public in exactly the right light. My marriage. My career. My face." Another drink. "I wake up in this house and I feel like I'm already a ghost. Like I'm haunting my own life." You watched her fingers tighten around the glass. The knuckles went pale.

"So when you ask what I'm paying for," she continued, "I'm paying for something real. Something that isn't polite. Something that doesn't treat me like I'm made of glass." The air in the room had changed. Thicker, somehow. Charged with something you couldn't name.

"Have you done this before?" you asked. "With anyone from the agency?"

"No."

"And you understand how this works? The boundaries, the rules—"

"I understand." She cut you off with a look that was almost defiant. "I read everything. I know about the safeword protocols. I know I can stop anything at any time. I know this isn't…" She paused, searching for the word. "Conventional."

"It's not," you agreed. "Which is why I need to ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me."

Karina raised an eyebrow, and for a second you caught a glimpse of the stage persona, the one who commanded thousands with a single glance. "Ask."

"Are you sure you want this?" The question hung between you. Outside, the wind picked up again, and somewhere in the house a door creaked—settling, probably, or the air pressure shifting. Karina didn't look away from your face.

"Do you want me to prove it?" she asked.

"I want you to tell me." She was quiet for a long moment. Then she set her glass down again, stood up from the sofa, and walked toward you. Her bare feet made almost no sound on the marble floor. The sweater slipped further off her shoulder as she moved, revealing the strap of something black and lacy underneath. When she stopped, she was standing directly in front of you, close enough that you could smell her perfume—something light, citrus and white flowers—and underneath it, the clean scent of her skin. "I've been thinking about this for three weeks," she said. "Ever since I found the agency's number in a forum I wasn't supposed to be reading. Ever since I realized that the only person who's touched me in eight months is my makeup artist." Her voice was steady, but there was a tremor underneath it. "So yes. I'm sure. I want this."

She held out her hand. "I want you to make me feel something. I don't care if it hurts. I don't care if it's ugly. I want to stop being Karina for a few hours and just be… a body. A woman. Whatever is left of me when all of this"—she waved at the house, at the empty walls, at the unopened flowers—"isn't here anymore." Your pulse was a drumbeat in your ears. Her hand was still extended, palm up, waiting.

"Tell me your safeword," you said.

"Red."

"And if you can't speak?"

"Three taps. Anywhere you can feel them." You'd said the same words to half a dozen clients before her, but something about the way Karina recited them back—steady, rehearsed, like she'd practiced them in front of a mirror—made your chest tighten.

"Okay," you said. And you took her hand. Her skin was warm. Soft, the way you'd imagined, but there was strength in her grip too—the hand of someone who'd spent years in dance studios, who'd trained her body to do exactly what she wanted it to. She didn't flinch when you stood up, which brought you close enough that you could see the individual lashes framing her eyes, the tiny mole near her left eyebrow, the way her lips had parted slightly.

"Before we do anything," you said, "I need you to understand something."

"What?"

"This isn't about your husband. This isn't about revenge or filling a void or proving something to yourself." You kept your voice low, even. "This is about what you want. Right now. In this room. Nothing else exists." Karina's eyes searched your face. Whatever she was looking for, she must have found it, because something in her expression shifted—a loosening, a letting-go.

"Nothing else exists," she repeated.

"Good girl." The words slipped out before you could stop them, but the effect was immediate. Karina's breath caught. Her pupils dilated, just slightly. The hand in yours tightened its grip.

"That's what you want?" you asked. "To be good?"

"I want…" She swallowed. "I want to stop thinking. I want someone else to be in charge. Just for a while." You lifted your free hand and brushed a strand of hair away from her face. The movement was gentle, almost reverent, and it made no sense with the things you were about to do—but that was the point, wasn't it? The contrast. The collision of tender and brutal that would short-circuit her brain and give her exactly what she was asking for.

"Your bedroom," you said. "Take me there."

She led you up the curved staircase, her hand still in yours. The upstairs hallway was lined with doors, all of them closed except one at the far end. Soft light spilled out of it, and as you got closer you could see the corner of a bed—a huge bed, king-sized at least, with white sheets and too many pillows. The master bedroom. Karina's bedroom.

The room that her husband had probably not set foot in for months. She paused at the threshold, and for a moment you thought she might hesitate. Might change her mind. Might realize what she was about to do and decide it was too much, too fast, too far outside the carefully constructed image of Yu Ji-min, beloved idol, perfect wife.

Instead, she turned to face you. "What do you want me to do first?" The question was genuine. Not a test. She was waiting for you to take the reins, willing to hand over control before you'd even started.

"First," you said, stepping into the bedroom and pulling her gently after you, "I want you to take off that sweater." Karina's hands moved to the hem of the gray wool. The fabric lifted, revealing the black lace you'd glimpsed earlier—a bralette, delicate and expensive-looking, the kind of thing you wore when you wanted to feel beautiful even if no one else would see it. The sweater came over her head and dropped to the floor.

Her skin was luminous in the low light. Pale and smooth, with the kind of muscle definition that came from years of dancing—toned arms, a flat stomach that tensed as she breathed, the curve of her ribs just visible beneath the skin. "Now the leggings." She hooked her thumbs into the waistband and pushed them down, bending at the waist. The movement was efficient, not seductive, but it didn't matter—the sight of her body unfolding as she straightened up, the black lace of her underwear matching the bralette, the long lines of her legs.

You circled her slowly. She stood very still, the way she'd probably been trained to stand for fittings and stage checks, but there was a tremor in her thighs that she couldn't quite control. Anticipation. Maybe fear. Probably both. "Lie down on the bed," you said. "On your back."

Karina did as she was told. The mattress barely dipped under her weight—memory foam, probably, the kind that cost more than your monthly rent. She arranged herself in the center of the white expanse, arms at her sides, looking up at the ceiling. "Close your eyes." Her lashes swept down against her cheeks. The room was silent except for her breathing, which had gone shallow and quick. You stood at the foot of the bed and watched her. The rise and fall of her chest. The way her fingers curled against the sheets. The faint flush spreading from her neck to her collarbones.

"How do you feel?" you asked. "Exposed."

"Good." You moved to the side of the bed and sat down on the edge, close enough that your hip nearly touched hers. Karina's breathing hitched at the proximity.

"Do you know what I'm going to do to you?"

A pause. "No." "I'm going to use you." The words came out rougher than you'd intended. "I'm going to take everything you're willing to give me, and I'm going to make you feel every second of it. Your body belongs to me tonight. Do you understand?"

Her voice was barely a whisper. "Yes."

"And you want that?"

"God, yes."

"Look at me." Her eyes opened. They were glassy already, the pupils blown wide. The composed idol from five minutes ago was already starting to dissolve, replaced by something more vulnerable and infinitely more real. "Your husband," you said. "Does he ever look at you like this?"

Karina flinched—a tiny movement, but you caught it. "No."

"Does he touch you?"

"No."

"Does he make you feel anything at all?" A tear slipped from the corner of her eye, tracking down her temple and into her hair. "No." You leaned closer. "Then forget him. Forget all of it. Right now, there's only me and you and what your body can take. Nothing else. No Karina. No Yu Ji-min. Just a woman who needs to be fucked like she matters."

The tears were coming faster now, but she wasn't sobbing—just leaking, silently, the release of pressure that had been building for months.

"Please," she said. "Please."

"Please what?"

"Make me forget." You stood up and began unbuttoning your shirt. Karina watched you through blurred vision, her chest rising and falling with breaths she couldn't seem to control. The black lace of her bralette had shifted, revealing the upper curve of her breasts, the skin there flushed and warm.

"Last chance to change your mind," you said, pulling your shirt off and letting it fall. Her eyes traveled over your chest, your arms, the line of your stomach. When she spoke, her voice was steadier than it had been.

"I'm not changing my mind."

"Good." You unbuckled your belt and pulled it free from the loops with a single smooth motion. The leather whispered against the fabric of your pants. "Because I'm just getting started." The belt was still in your hand. Karina watched it loop between your fingers, the leather dark against your palm. Her tears had left shiny tracks down her temples, disappearing into the hairline, and her breathing had gone shallow again—not from crying now, but from something else. Something that made her thighs press together on the white sheets.

“Sit up,” you said. She pushed herself upright, the bralette shifting as she moved. One strap slipped off her shoulder. She didn’t fix it. You folded the belt in half and ran your thumb along the smooth side. “You said you wanted to stop being Karina for a few hours.”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m going to take away your sight.” Her lips parted. A micro-flinch—not fear, not exactly. More like the body’s instinctive response to a cliff edge. The moment before the jump. “The blindfold,” you continued, “stays on until I take it off. If it becomes too much, you use the taps. Three of them. Anywhere you can reach me.”

“I know the rules.”

“I know you do.” You stepped closer, until your knees touched the edge of the mattress. “But I want to hear you say it. What happens if you need to stop?”

“Three taps.” Her voice was steadier now. “On you. Anywhere.”

“And what’s your word?”

“Red.”

“Good.” You reached down and brushed your knuckles along her jawline. The contact was feather-light, almost accidental. “Lift your hair.” She gathered the dark strands and held them up, exposing the nape of her neck. The movement arched her back slightly, pushed her chest forward. The black lace strained against her breasts. You brought the belt around her head. The leather was cool, supple from use. You positioned it across her eyes, careful not to catch her hair in the buckle, and pulled it snug against her temples. Not tight enough to hurt. Tight enough that she wouldn’t see anything but darkness.

“How does that feel?”

Karina exhaled. “Dark.”

“Can you see anything?”

“No.”

“Good.” You fastened the belt at the back of her head and let your fingers trail down the side of her neck as you withdrew. Her pulse hammered against your fingertips. “Now lie back down.” She lowered herself onto the mattress. The movement was different now—less controlled, more tentative. Without her sight, every shift of her body became a negotiation with the unknown. Her hands found the sheets and gripped them. You stood at the edge of the bed and looked at her. The idol that half of Korea fantasized about. The face on every billboard. Reduced to a blindfolded woman in black lace, her chest rising and falling in shallow, rapid cycles, her lips slick where she’d licked them.

“Spread your legs.” Karina’s thighs parted. The movement was slow, almost reluctant—but she did it. The matching black panties were cut high on her hips, the fabric thin enough that you could see the suggestion of her underneath. A dark shadow. A slight dampness already bleeding through.

“Wider.” She obeyed. Her knees fell open, exposing the full length of her. The panties pulled taut across her cunt. The outline of her lips. The little seam where they parted.

You didn’t touch her there. Not yet. Instead you climbed onto the bed, positioning yourself beside her. The mattress dipped under your weight, and Karina’s body shifted toward you instinctively—gravity pulling her toward the heat of your skin. “You’re going to use your mouth now,” you said. “And while you do, I’m going to play with these.” Your fingers found the strap of her bralette. You pulled it down. Then the other strap. The lace caught on her nipples for a moment—already peaked, already hard—before you tugged it free and let the fabric pool around her waist.

Karina’s breasts were full and pale, the nipples a dusty rose color that darkened at the tips. They stiffened further in the open air, and she made a small sound—something between a gasp and a whimper. “You like that.”

“Yes,” she breathed.

“You like being blindfolded. You like not knowing what’s coming next.”

“I… yes.” You traced a circle around her right nipple with your fingertip. The skin puckered. Karina’s back lifted off the mattress.

“Don’t move,” you said. “Stay still and let me touch you.” She forced herself down. The effort was visible—her abdominal muscles tensed, her hands fisting in the sheets. You circled the nipple again, closer this time, and then you took it between your thumb and forefinger and squeezed. The sound she made was not a moan. It was a broken exhale, a noise that started in her chest and caught in her throat. Her hips bucked once—an involuntary spasm—and then she forced them still. “That’s it,” you murmured. “Let your body react. Don’t fight it.”

You rolled the nipple between your fingers, working it slowly. The texture was fascinating—the way it tightened and pebbled under your touch, the way the areola crinkled around it. Karina’s breathing had gone ragged. A flush was spreading down her chest, past her collarbones, toward the swell of her breasts. “Does your husband ever touch you like this?”

“No—” The word came out strangled.

“Does he know what your body does when someone pays attention to it?”

“He doesn’t… he never…”

“He never what?”

“He never touches me.” The confession was barely a whisper. “He never—ah—” You’d switched to the other nipple, giving it the same treatment. Roll. Squeeze. A gentle twist that made her gasp and arch before she remembered she was supposed to stay still.

“Then he’s a fool,” you said. “Because your body is extraordinary.” You leaned down and took her nipple into your mouth. Karina cried out. The sound was sharp and sudden, echoing in the vast bedroom. Your tongue laved across the tight bud, traced circles around the areola, and then you sucked—a long, pulling pressure that made her whole body go rigid.

“Oh—oh god—” Her hands came up, flailing in the dark, and found your shoulders. Her nails dug in. You didn’t tell her to stop. Instead you sucked harder, pulling the nipple deep into your mouth while your other hand continued working its twin—rolling, pinching, tugging in counterpoint to the rhythm of your tongue. She was making sounds now that had no words in them. Just vowels. Just broken, desperate vowels that rose and fell with the movement of your mouth. You released her nipple with a wet pop.

“Hands down,” you said. “We’re not done.” Karina’s fingers uncurled from your shoulders. She lowered her arms back to the bed. Her chest was heaving, both nipples now slick and swollen, darker than they’d been before. The blindfold had shifted slightly—just a millimeter—but she hadn’t tried to remove it. “Good girl. Now.” You unfastened your pants and pushed them down. Your boxers followed. “I want you to sit up. I want you on your knees. Can you do that?”

She nodded. The belt bobbed with the movement. Getting her upright was an exercise in trust. She couldn’t see the edge of the bed, couldn’t gauge the distance. You guided her by the shoulders—first into a sitting position, then turning her so her legs hung off the side of the mattress. “On your knees,” you said. “On the floor.” Karina slid off the bed. Her knees hit the hardwood with a soft thud. The position put her face level with your hips, and even though she couldn’t see you, she must have sensed your proximity, because her breath quickened. “You’re going to use your mouth now,” you said. “The way you’ve been thinking about since you first called the agency. The way you’ve imagined in this empty bed at night while your husband was god knows where.”

Her lips parted. Her tongue darted out, wetting them. “But you don’t get to use your hands. Not yet. Just your mouth. And while you work, I’m going to keep playing with your nipples. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” You guided yourself toward her mouth. The head of your cock brushed her lower lip—just a touch, just enough for her to feel the heat. Karina’s whole body shuddered. “Open.” She did. Her jaw dropped, and you pushed forward, sliding the tip past her lips. The inside of her mouth was hot. Wet. Her tongue met the underside of your shaft, tentative at first, then bolder—flattening against you, tracing the ridge of the head. You groaned. The sound was involuntary. “That’s it. Take more.”

She did. Her lips stretched around your girth, and you watched her jaw work as she accommodated the intrusion. There was no hesitation now—the blindfold had freed her from something. From the performance. From the expectation. From Karina Yu, the idol, and all the ways that identity constrained her. The woman kneeling on the floor was just a woman. A woman who wanted to suck cock. You reached down and found her nipples again. Both of them this time, one in each hand, rolling them between your thumbs and forefingers as she began to move.

Karina moaned around your shaft. The vibration traveled through you, up your spine, into the base of your skull. “Mmm—”

She pulled back, let her tongue swirl around the head, then pushed forward again—deeper this time. Her throat flexed. A gag reflex triggered, and she choked, but she didn’t pull away. She held herself there, breathing through her nose, letting her throat adjust to the intrusion. “Fuck,” you breathed. “You’ve done this before.” She couldn’t answer—her mouth was full—but the way she moved said everything. This wasn’t practice. This was muscle memory. Somewhere in her past, before the fame and the management and the carefully curated image, there had been a girl who knew exactly what to do with her mouth. You pinched her nipples harder. She whimpered. Bobbed her head. The wet sounds of her mouth filled the room—the slick slide of lips on skin, the soft suction when she pulled back, the obscene little pop when she reached the tip and let go for just a moment before diving back down.

“Look at you.” Your voice had gone rough. “The most famous woman in Korea. On her knees. Blindfolded. Choking on a stranger’s cock.” Karina’s response was a moan that vibrated through your entire shaft. She sucked harder. Faster. Her tongue worked the underside of your cock with the kind of precision that spoke to experience—flicking against the frenulum, tracing the vein that ran along the length, pressing flat and wide when she reached the base. You tugged her nipples in rhythm with her bobbing. Pull when she went down. Release when she came up. The coordination turned her body into an instrument—you played her nipples, and she played you with her mouth. Saliva dripped down her chin. It pooled in the hollow of her throat, ran in thin rivulets toward her collarbones. She was messy now. Undone. The composed idol from an hour ago was dissolving into something rawer and infinitely more beautiful.

“Deeper,” you said. “Take it deeper.” She pushed forward. Her throat constricted around the head of your cock—a tight, hot pressure that made your vision swim. She gagged again, harder this time, and you felt her throat spasm around you. “Stay there.” She held. Her shoulders trembled. A tear leaked from beneath the blindfold—not from crying, but from the physical reflex of her throat trying to expel the intrusion. The tear tracked down her cheek and mixed with the saliva on her chin. You released her nipples and cupped her face instead. Your thumbs traced the stretched line of her lips, the bulge of your cock visible through her cheek.

“You’re perfect like this,” you murmured. “Blind. Choking. Desperate. This is what you needed, isn’t it? To be used. To be nothing but a mouth.” Karina made a sound—half moan, half sob—and nodded as much as she could with your cock buried in her throat. You pulled back. Let her breathe. A thick strand of saliva connected her bottom lip to the tip of your cock.

“Don’t swallow yet,” you said. “Let it drip.” She obeyed. The saliva pooled and spilled, running down her chin and onto her chest. It made her skin glisten in the low light.

“Now use your hands. Both of them. Show me how you touch yourself when you think about this.” Her hands came up immediately—eager, almost frantic. One wrapped around the base of your shaft while the other cupped your balls. Her fingers were cool against the heat of your skin. She squeezed gently, testing the weight, and then her mouth was back on you—lips stretched wide, tongue working, throat opening. The blindfold was soaked now. Tears and sweat had darkened the leather around her eyes. You reached down and found her nipples again. Plucked them. Rolled them. Pinched them until she keened around your cock, the sound high and desperate. “You love this. You love being on your knees for a stranger. You love not being in control.”

“Mmmhmm—” The affirmation vibrated through your shaft.

“Say it. Pull off and say it.” She let you go with a gasp. Her lips were swollen, the color darkened to a deep rose. “I love it. I love being on my knees. I love—” She swallowed, her throat working. “I love not being in control.”

“Why?”

“Because…” Her blindfolded face tilted up toward your voice. “Because for once I don’t have to pretend. I don’t have to be perfect. I don’t have to be Karina. I can just be… this.”

“A mouth.”

“Yes.”

“A set of holes.”

She shuddered. “Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I’m a mouth.” Her voice cracked. “I’m a set of holes. I’m just—I’m just a body that wants to be used.” You stroked her cheek. “Good girl. Now open up.” She did. Her jaw dropped, tongue extended—a gesture of pure, shameless submission. You guided yourself back into her mouth and this time you didn’t let her set the pace. You fucked her throat with slow, deliberate thrusts, watching her lips stretch around you, watching her chest heave as she struggled to breathe through her nose.

Your hands never left her nipples. They were dark now, engorged, slick with the saliva that had dripped down from her chin. You twisted them in opposite directions and Karina screamed around your cock—a muffled, desperate sound that was swallowed by the column of flesh filling her throat. “Again.” Twist. Scream. Her thighs squeezed together, and through the thin black panties you could see her cunt clenching on nothing.

“You’re getting wet from this. From choking on a stranger’s cock while he twists your nipples.” She couldn’t answer. Could only whimper and bob her head and take it. You pulled her off again. She gasped, coughed, and then immediately tried to lean forward—to get you back in her mouth. You held her by the hair. “Not yet. I want to look at you.” Karina knelt there, chest heaving, lips swollen and slick, chin dripping. The blindfold was a dark slash across her face. Her nipples jutted out from the flushed mounds of her breasts, hard and dark and wet. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” you said. “And I mean that. Not Karina the idol. Not the image. This. Right here. A woman who finally stopped pretending.”

Her lips trembled. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please let me finish. Please let me taste you. Please—I need—I need to feel you—”

“You need to feel me come down your throat.”

“Yes.” The word was a sob. “Yes. Please. Use my mouth. Use my throat. I don’t care if I can’t breathe. I just want to feel it. I want to taste it. Please.” You guided her back onto your cock. She took you deeper than before—no hesitation, no slow build. She swallowed you whole, her nose pressing against your abdomen, her throat working around the intrusion like it was made for this. Made for you. Your hands found her nipples one last time. You pinched them hard—the hardest yet—and held the pressure as she sucked. Karina’s whole body convulsed. Her thighs pressed together so tightly that the muscles in her legs stood out in sharp relief. A muffled, keening sound escaped from somewhere deep in her throat. She was close. Even without touching her cunt, even without any stimulation below the waist—she was close. The nipple play and the blindfold and the degradation had wound her up to a breaking point.

You felt your own climax building. A tightening at the base of your spine. A coiling pressure that radiated outward. “I’m going to come,” you said. “And you’re going to swallow every drop. Do you understand?” Karina’s response was to suck harder. Her tongue worked the underside of your shaft, pressing and stroking in time with her bobbing. Her hand cupped your balls and squeezed—gently, then harder—and that was it. The orgasm hit like a punch to the spine. You groaned—a deep, guttural sound—and your hands tightened on her nipples as the first pulse of cum shot into her mouth. She swallowed. You felt her throat work around the head of your cock, milking you, drawing out every pulse. The second shot. The third. She took them all, her lips sealed tight around your shaft, not letting a single drop escape.

“Fuck. Fuck, Karina—” She pulled back just enough to let the last pulse land on her tongue. Then she closed her mouth and swallowed again, her throat moving in a long, deliberate gulp. When she finally released you, she sat back on her heels. Her chest was still heaving. Her nipples were dark and swollen. Her chin glistened. A single drop of cum had escaped the corner of her mouth and was tracking slowly down toward her jaw. You reached down and wiped it away with your thumb. Then you pressed your thumb to her lips. She sucked it clean.

“Thank you,” she whispered. You crouched down in front of her. The blindfold was ruined—soaked through with tears and sweat, the leather darkened to near-black. You reached behind her head and unbuckled it. The belt fell away.

Karina blinked. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused, the pupils so dilated that her irises were barely visible. Tear tracks striped her cheeks. Her lips—swollen, bruised-looking, the lipstick she hadn’t been wearing long since replaced by a deeper, more honest color. She looked wrecked. She looked free. “How do you feel?” you asked.

A long pause. Then a smile—small, fragile, but real. “Like I’m still here. Like I’m actually… in my body. For the first time in months.” You brushed the hair away from her face. “We’re not done.” Karina’s smile widened, just a fraction. “I know.” “Lie back down on the bed. On your stomach this time.” She rose on unsteady legs and climbed onto the mattress. The black panties were soaked through now—a dark, wet patch that spread from the gusset all the way to the waistband. She arranged herself face-down on the white sheets, her arms stretched above her head, her legs slightly apart.

The position made her ass look incredible. Round and full, the cheeks peeking out from beneath the lace.

You climbed onto the bed behind her. Your cock was still half-hard, already stirring again at the sight of her. “I’m going to take these off now,” you said, hooking your fingers into the waistband of her panties. “And then I’m going to find out just how wet choking on a stranger’s cock made you.”

Karina’s voice was muffled by the pillow. “Yes. Please. Touch me.” You pulled the panties down. And stopped breathing. The panties slid down the curve of her ass, the black lace peeling away from skin that glistened with moisture. The gusset left a shining trail across the backs of her thighs—a snail's track of arousal that caught the bedroom's low light. You stopped breathing.

Karina's cunt was laid bare before you, the lips puffy and flushed a deep rose, parted just enough to reveal the darker, wetter flesh within. Her arousal had coated everything—the inner thighs, the neat strip of dark hair above her mound, the puckered swirl of her asshole that winked at you as she shifted on the mattress. The scent hit you next: salt and musk and something sweeter underneath, the raw perfume of a woman who'd been sucking cock while her nipples were tortured and had loved every second of it.

"Fuck," you breathed. Karina's response was muffled by the pillow. "What? What is it?"

"You're dripping. You're actually—" You ran one finger along the seam of her cunt, not pushing in, just gathering the slick that had pooled there. The touch made her whole body jolt. "You're soaked. All the way down your thighs."

"I know." Her voice cracked. "I could feel it. While I was—while you were in my mouth—I could feel myself getting wetter and I couldn't do anything about it."

"Did you want to?"

"Yes. God, yes. I wanted to touch myself so badly. But you told me not to move. So I just… leaked." You brought your slick-coated finger to your mouth and tasted her. Salty. Slightly bitter. Clean. The flavor bloomed on your tongue, and something in your chest tightened—not just lust, though there was plenty of that, but something closer to awe. The most famous woman in Korea was face-down on her marital bed, her cunt drooling onto the sheets, waiting for a stranger to decide what to do with her.

"Please," Karina whispered. "Please touch me. I've been waiting. I've been so patient. Please."

"How long has it been since someone touched you here?"

"Eight months. Since before the wedding. He never—Joon-ho never—" She choked on the name. "He never wanted to. Even before we got married. He said it was… messy. He said he preferred—"

"Preferred what?"

"His hand. His own hand. While I lay next to him pretending to be asleep." The confession hung in the air. You looked at the perfect curve of her ass, the trembling muscles of her thighs, the slick heat of her cunt that some man had decided wasn't worth his time. "His loss," you said. "Don't move." You positioned yourself behind her, kneeling between her spread legs. The position gave you a view of everything—the long line of her spine, the flare of her hips, the dark cleft of her ass, and at the center of it all, her cunt. Swollen. Wet. Waiting.

"Two fingers," you said. "I'm going to put two fingers inside you. And you're going to scream into that pillow." Karina grabbed the pillow and pulled it to her face. You pushed your middle finger into her first.

The heat was staggering. Tight—god, she was tight—but so wet that your finger slid in to the second knuckle without resistance. Her inner walls clenched around the intrusion, a rippling squeeze that traveled from base to tip. Karina's back arched. A strangled sound escaped the pillow.

"One," you said. "Here comes the second."

Your index finger joined the first. The stretch made her gasp—a sharp intake of air that she cut off by biting the pillow. You pushed both fingers deep, curling them upward, searching for the rough patch of tissue that would make her see stars.

You found it.

Karina screamed.

The sound was muffled by the pillow but still loud enough to echo in the vast bedroom. Her hips bucked backward, driving your fingers deeper. Her cunt clamped down with a force that made your knuckles ache.

"There it is," you murmured. "That's what you needed, isn't it? Someone to find it. Someone to touch it. Someone who isn't afraid of a little mess."

"Don't stop—please don't stop—"

You didn't stop. You fucked her with your fingers in slow, deep strokes, curling them against that spot every time you bottomed out. The wet sounds were obscene—a slick, squelching rhythm that filled the room. Her juices coated your hand, dripped down your wrist, pooled on the sheets beneath her.

"Listen to yourself," you said. "Listen to how wet you are. You sound like a—"

"Like a whore." The word came out muffled but clear. "Say it. I want you to say it."

"You sound like a whore. A dripping, desperate whore who's been neglected for eight months and finally has someone's fingers in her cunt."

Karina moaned—a long, wavering sound that rose in pitch as you increased your pace. Her fingers clawed at the sheets. Her ass lifted higher, presenting herself more openly, and you watched her cunt stretch around your fingers, the lips clinging to your knuckles every time you pulled back.

"More," she gasped. "More. I need more. I need—"

"You need what?"

"I need to come. Please. Please let me come. I've been so good. I swallowed everything. I didn't spill a drop. Please."

You slowed your fingers. Stopped them entirely, buried to the hilt inside her.

Karina whimpered. "No—no, why did you stop—"

"Because I want to hear you beg properly." You leaned down, your lips brushing the shell of her ear. "You're not Karina right now. You're not an idol. You're just a wet hole that wants to be filled. So beg like one."

A shudder ran through her body. Her voice, when it came, was smaller than before—stripped of the polish, stripped of everything except raw, naked need.

"Please fuck me with your fingers. Please make me come. I've been empty for so long. I've been so empty and so lonely and the only thing that's made me feel anything in months is your cock in my throat and your fingers on my nipples and now I need—I need you to let me finish. I need to feel something break inside me. Please. I'm begging you. I'm begging like the desperate slut I am. Please."

"Good girl."

You resumed fucking her with your fingers. Faster this time. Harder. The curl against her G-spot became a pounding rhythm, and Karina's whole body began to shake. Her thighs quivered. Her ass clenched and unclenched. The pillow was soaked with saliva and tears.

"I'm close—I'm so close—"

You pulled your fingers out.

"No!" The word was a howl. Her cunt gaped for a moment, empty and clenching on nothing, and then she collapsed forward onto the mattress. "Why? Why did you—I was right there—"

"Turn over."

She rolled onto her back. Her face was a wreck—eyes wild and glassy, cheeks blotchy with tears, lips still swollen from the blowjob. Her chest heaved. Her nipples stood out like dark berries against the pale swell of her breasts.

"Spread your legs."

She did. Her cunt was even more obscene from this angle—the lips engorged and spread, the inner flesh a slick, vivid pink, the hood of her clitoris pulled back to reveal the pearl beneath. Everything glistened.

"Touch yourself."

Karina's hand flew to her cunt. Her fingers found her clit and began rubbing in tight, frantic circles. Her other hand grabbed her breast, squeezing, pinching the nipple.

"That's it. Show me how you make yourself come when you're alone in this empty house."

"It's always you," she panted. "Not you—not you specifically—but someone. Someone who isn't him. Someone who wants me. I imagine—I imagine being taken. Being used. Being ruined." Her circles grew faster. "I imagine a stranger's cock. A stranger's hands. I imagine being bent over and fucked until I can't walk. Until I can't think. Until I forget my own name."

"And does your husband ever make you come?"

"Never. Not once. Not even—not even when we—ah—"

"Don't stop. Keep rubbing."

Her fingers were a blur on her clit. Her hips lifted off the mattress. The muscles in her stomach stood out in sharp definition. She was close again—you could see it in the flush spreading across her chest, the way her mouth fell open, the frantic, jerky movements of her hand.

"Please," she gasped. "Please let me—"

"Stop."

Her hand froze. A sound came out of her that wasn't human—a guttural, animal keen of pure frustration. Her clit twitched visibly, denied its release. Her cunt spasmed, squeezing around nothing, gushing a fresh surge of fluid that soaked the sheets.

"Fuck!" She slammed her fist against the mattress. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—"

You grabbed her wrist and pinned it above her head. "Look at me."

Karina's eyes met yours. They were wet and desperate and furious and grateful all at once.

"You said you wanted to be ruined. Ruined doesn't mean easy. Ruined doesn't mean I let you come the moment you ask nicely. Ruined means I take you apart piece by piece until there's nothing left but the animal underneath. Do you understand?"

"Yes." The word was barely a whisper.

"Do you still want this?"

"God, yes. Yes. Ruin me. Please. I want to be ruined."

You released her wrist. "Then get on your hands and knees. I want to see all of you."

Karina scrambled into position. The movement was ungraceful, uncoordinated—the idol's dancer precision abandoned in favor of pure, sloppy need. She presented herself on all fours, her back arched, her ass lifted high. The position opened her completely—her cunt a dark, wet gash between her thighs, her asshole a tight pink knot, everything glistening with the evidence of her arousal.

"Spread your ass cheeks."

Her hands reached back. Her fingers dug into the full flesh of her buttocks and pulled them apart, exposing herself more completely. The vulnerability of the gesture made your cock throb.

"Wider."

She stretched herself open until the pink of her cunt gaped slightly, until you could see the dark entrance of her body, the place where her wetness pooled and dripped in a slow, viscous thread onto the sheets.

"Please," she breathed. "Please ruin my pussy. I need your cock. I need it inside me. I've needed it since you walked through my door. Since before that. Since I first saw your picture in the agency file. Please. Fuck me. Fuck me like you hate me. Fuck me like I'm nothing."

You positioned yourself behind her.

Your cock was fully hard again—thick and veined, the head an angry purple, a bead of precum already forming at the slit. You gripped the base and ran the tip along her slit, coating yourself in her slick. The contact made her shudder.

"Is this what you want?"

"Yes—"

You pushed the head against her entrance. The heat of her cunt kissed the tip of your cock.

"Say it again. Louder."

"YES. Fuck me. Please fuck me. Ruin my pussy. I want to feel you in my womb. I want to feel you for days. I want to walk into my next schedule and still feel where you've been. Please—"

You thrust forward.

One motion. No gradual entry. No easing her open. You buried yourself to the hilt in a single, brutal stroke, and Karina's plea dissolved into a scream that had no words in it.

Her cunt was impossibly tight. The wet heat of her gripped every inch of you—a clenching, rippling pressure that traveled from base to tip. You felt the head of your cock butt against her cervix, felt the resistant give of that deepest barrier, and then you pushed past it.

Karina's scream pitched higher.

"Oh fuck—oh fuck, you're so deep—you're in my—"

"Your womb. I know."

You stayed there for a moment, buried to the root, letting her body adjust to the intrusion. Her inner walls fluttered around your shaft—spasms of sensation that were half pleasure, half shock. Her fingers were still digging into her ass cheeks, holding herself open, and you could see exactly where your bodies joined. The stretched ring of her cunt. The way her lips clung to the base of your cock. The shine of her fluids on your skin.

"You're taking all of it," you said. "Every inch. You feel that? Feel how deep I am?"

"Yes—yes, I feel it—I feel you in my stomach—"

"Good."

You pulled back. The drag of her walls against your shaft made your vision swim. Then you slammed forward again, harder than before, and Karina's head dropped between her shoulders, her whole body rocking forward from the force.

"AH—"

"Again."

Another thrust. Harder. The sound of your bodies colliding was a wet slap that echoed off the bedroom walls. Her ass rippled with the impact. Her breasts swung beneath her.

"You wanted to be ruined," you growled, gripping her hips. "So I'm going to ruin you. I'm going to fuck this tight little cunt until you can't remember your own name. Until you can't remember his name. Until the only thing in your head is my cock and how deep it is and how hard I'm using you."

"Yes—yes—fuck—harder—"

You gave her harder.

The rhythm you set was brutal—deep, driving strokes that bottomed out against her cervix with every thrust. The wet sounds of her cunt filled the room. Your balls slapped against her clit. Sweat dripped from your forehead onto her back, tracing rivulets down her spine.

Karina was making sounds that didn't belong to any language. Guttural moans. High-pitched whines. Broken syllables that might have been words if she'd had enough control to form them. Her fingers had released her ass cheeks and were now fisting in the sheets, knuckles white, arms trembling.

"Look at you. The most famous idol in Korea. On her hands and knees. Getting her pussy destroyed by a stranger. Moaning like an animal. This is what you needed, isn't it? Not the fame. Not the money. Not the perfect husband and the perfect house. This. Just this. Just a cock in your cunt and someone who knows how to use it."

"YES—YES, THIS—THIS IS WHAT I—OH FUCK—"

You reached around her body and found her clit. The bundle of nerves was swollen and slick, hard as a pebble under your fingertip. You pressed down and circled—not gently, not teasingly, but with the same brutal intensity as your thrusts.

Karina's whole body convulsed.

The orgasm hit her like a wave breaking against rocks. Her cunt clamped down on your cock with a force that almost hurt—a rhythmic, pulsing squeeze that traveled in waves from her core outward. Her back arched impossibly. Her head flew up, mouth open in a silent scream, eyes rolled back so far that only the whites were visible.

Then the sound came. A wail. A keening, animal cry that started low in her chest and rose to fill the room. Her arms gave out. She collapsed forward onto the mattress, but you followed her down, never stopping, never slowing, fucking her through the orgasm with the same relentless pace.

"Thaaaat's it—don't stop—don't stop—don't—I can't—it's too much—"

"You can take it. You wanted to be ruined. You're going to take every thrust until I'm done with you."

"It's too much—it's—oh god—OH GOD—"

A second orgasm crashed over her before the first had fully subsided. This one was stronger—violent, almost. Her cunt gushed around your cock, soaking your thighs, soaking the sheets. Her screams dissolved into sobs. Her body shook with a force that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than muscle, somewhere primal.

"Please—please—I can't—I can't take any more—"

"One more. Give me one more."

"I can't—I can't—"

"You can. Feel that? Feel how deep I am? Feel how full you are? That's what you needed. Not his empty house. Not his empty promises. This. A cock that fills you up. A body that knows how to use yours. Come for me again, Karina. Come on this cock like the desperate whore you told me you are."

Her response was unintelligible. A stream of syllables that might have been Korean, might have been English, might have been neither. A confession. A prayer. A surrender.

You drove into her harder—deeper, if that was even possible—and pressed your thumb against her clit. The stimulation was merciless. Her cunt seized around you. Her sobs pitched higher.

And then she shattered.

This orgasm was different from the others. Quieter. Deeper. Her body went rigid for a long, suspended moment—every muscle locked, every breath held. Then the release came, and it came with a flood. Her cunt gushed around your shaft—not just wetness this time, but a clear, copious fluid that sprayed against your thighs and soaked into the mattress beneath her.

Karina's voice broke on a single word: "Fuuuuck—"

Her body went limp. Completely limp. She collapsed into the wet sheets, her chest heaving, her limbs twitching with aftershocks. Her cunt still pulsed weakly around your cock—little flutters of sensation that traveled up your shaft.

You slowed your thrusts. Eased to a stop. Buried yourself deep inside her one last time and held there, feeling the heat of her body, the slick grip of her cunt, the violent thudding of her heart that you could feel through the walls of her core.

The room was silent except for her breathing—ragged, broken gasps that gradually slowed to something approaching normal.

"Are you still with me?" you asked.

A long pause. Then, muffled by the mattress: "I don't know. I think so. I think… I think that was…"

"That was what?"

"That was the first time. The first time anyone's ever—" She swallowed. The movement traveled through her whole body. "The first time anyone's ever made me come. Not just during sex. Ever."

You pulled out slowly. Her cunt made a wet, sucking sound as you withdrew—reluctant, almost, as if her body didn't want to let you go. A gush of fluid followed, clear and viscous, pooling on the already-soaked sheets.

Karina whimpered at the emptiness.

"Turn over," you said. "Look at me."

It took her a moment to find the strength. When she finally rolled onto her back, the sight of her made your chest tighten.

She was wrecked. Absolutely wrecked. Her face was blotchy with tears, her eyes swollen and glassy. Her lips—still puffy from the blowjob—were parted, a thin trail of drool connecting the corner of her mouth to her chin. Her nipples were dark and angry-looking, surrounded by faint marks where your fingers had been. Her thighs were slick with her own fluids. Her cunt gaped slightly, the lips engorged and spread, still pulsing with aftershocks.

She had never looked more beautiful.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"You don't have to thank me."

"I know. I want to." Her voice was hoarse—fucked raw, used up. "I've been numb for so long. I didn't even realize how numb until… until you made me feel all of this. The pain. The pleasure. The—the shame. The humiliation. I felt all of it. I'm still feeling it."

"And right now? How do you feel?"

Karina's eyes found yours. The glassiness was fading, replaced by something clearer. Something almost peaceful.

"Full," she said. "And sore. And wet. And tired. And…" A pause. "Alive. I feel alive."

You reached down and brushed a strand of sweat-damp hair away from her forehead. The gesture was gentle—a stark contrast to everything you'd just done to her body.

"Good," you said. "Because we're still not finished."

Her eyes widened. Then, slowly, a smile spread across her wrecked face—small and fragile and utterly genuine.

"I know," she said. "I was counting on it."

The shower was a rainfall fixture, wide enough for two, the water coming down in a steady, warm curtain. Steam fogged the glass enclosure. You stood behind Karina, cupping water in your palms and letting it run down her back. The rivulets tracked the geography you'd already memorized—the dip of her spine, the flare of her hips, the twin dimples just above the swell of her ass.

She leaned against the marble wall, forehead pressed to the cool stone.

"I can't feel my legs," she mumbled.

"That's normal."

"Is it?" A laugh, breathy and exhausted. "Good to know."

You reached for the body wash—something expensive, sandalwood and bergamot—and worked it into a lather between your hands. When you touched her shoulders, Karina sighed. The sound was different from the ones that had filled the bedroom an hour ago. Softer. Quieter. The sigh of a body that had been wrung dry and was finally allowed to rest.

Your hands moved down her back in slow circles. Over the faint red marks your fingers had left on her hips. Across the small of her back where sweat had pooled and dried. Down to the curve of her ass, where you kneaded the muscle with careful pressure.

"You're going to be sore tomorrow," you said.

"Good." Her voice was muffled against the marble. "I want to be sore. I want to remember."

"Remember what?"

She turned around. Water sluiced down her front, plastering her hair to her neck and shoulders. The mascara she hadn't been wearing was long gone, but her eyes were still rimmed with red, still slightly swollen. The marks on her nipples had darkened. Her lips—still puffy, still that deep bruised rose—curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.

"That I'm a real person. That someone wanted me. That for a few hours, I wasn't just a photograph."

You cupped her face. Your thumbs traced her cheekbones. "You were never just a photograph."

"You know what I mean."

"I do." You leaned down and kissed her forehead. Then the bridge of her nose. Then each eyelid, feather-light, the way you'd close a book you weren't finished reading. "But you need to hear it anyway. You're not what he made you feel. You were never what he made you feel."

Karina's breath shuddered out. Fresh tears mixed with the shower water—silent ones this time, not the wrenching sobs from before. She didn't answer. Didn't need to. You held her there in the steam until the water started to cool.

Later, wrapped in a robe that probably cost more than your monthly car payment, Karina walked you to the front door.

The foyer was different now. Less cavernous. The unopened flowers still sat on the console table, but something about them had shifted—they looked less like an accusation and more like a relic. A fossil from a life she was leaving behind.

She pressed a small folded paper into your palm.

"My real number," she said. "Not the one the agency has. Not the one my manager screens." Her fingers lingered on your wrist. "Call me. Or text me. I don't care which. Just… don't disappear."

You unfolded the paper. The handwriting was neat, precise—idol training, probably, years of signing autographs until every stroke was perfect. Ten digits. No name. She didn't need one.

"I won't disappear," you said.

"You say that now."

"I mean it." You caught her hand and lifted it to your lips. Kissed her knuckles. Then the inside of her wrist, where the skin was thin and the pulse still fluttered. "You survived eight months of being invisible in your own house. The least I can do is answer a text."

She laughed—a real one this time, short and surprised. "That's a low bar."

"I'm a simple man."

Karina pulled her hand back, but slowly, the way you set down something fragile. "Go. Before I ask you to stay."

You didn't say goodbye. The training had taught you better than that. Goodbye implied an ending, and endings were the one thing clients like Karina didn't need more of. Instead you stepped out into the cool night air, the paper clutched in your hand, and let the door click shut behind you.

Three weeks passed.

Senior Park called on a Tuesday.

"New client," he said, the way he always did—like he was offering you a gift and daring you to guess what was inside. "Young. Married. The usual story."

"The usual story" had become a kind of shorthand between you. Rich husband. Neglected wife. A mansion full of expensive things and no warmth. You'd heard it so many times now that the details blurred together—only the faces changed, and even those were starting to feel familiar. Actresses. Idols. The wives of men who'd acquired beauty like a stock portfolio and then forgotten to check on it.

"Who is it?" you asked.

A pause. Park was savoring this.

"Jang Wonyoung."

The name hit you like a bucket of cold water.

"Wonyoung? From IVE?"

"The one and only." You could hear the grin in his voice. "Married at twenty-eight. To Kim Seok-joong. The producer. You know him?"

Everyone knew him. Kim Seok-joong had produced half the hits on the charts for the last five years—a genius behind the mixing board, a tyrant in the studio, and, according to every rumor mill in the industry, a man who treated marriage vows like a suggestion. The tabloids had run photos of him leaving clubs with trainees young enough to be his daughters. Wonyoung's name always appeared in the same articles, usually paired with words like "humiliated" and "trapped."

"She called us directly," Park continued. "Apparently she heard about us through a mutual acquaintance. Someone who spoke very highly of your work."

You thought of Karina. Of the paper still folded in your wallet.

"Mutual acquaintance?"

"I don't ask. I don't want to know. I just make the arrangements." The rustle of paper on his end. "She's in Hannam-dong. The penthouse. Tomorrow night, nine o'clock. Don't be late."

The line went dead.

Hannam-dong at night was a different kind of wealth than the gated mansions of the suburbs. Here the money went vertical—glass towers that stabbed into the sky, each floor a monument to someone's ambition. The penthouse elevator required a code, which Senior Park had texted you an hour earlier along with a single line: She's nervous. Go slow.

The elevator ascended in silence. No muzak. No mirrored walls. Just brushed steel and the soft hum of hydraulics. You watched the floor numbers climb and tried not to think about the fact that Jang Wonyoung was waiting at the top of this building. Jang Wonyoung, who'd debuted at fourteen and been famous before she could legally drive. Jang Wonyoung, whose face had sold a million magazines. Jang Wonyoung, who'd married a man twice her age and apparently regretted it before the ink on the certificate was dry.

The doors opened onto a private foyer.

The penthouse was smaller than Karina's mansion—everything in Seoul was smaller than Karina's mansion—but it made up for it in verticality. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the Han River, the city lights reflected in the water like scattered coins. The furniture was minimalist: a low white sofa, a glass coffee table, a single orchid in a concrete pot. No photographs. No personal touches. It looked less like a home and more like a hotel suite where someone had been staying for too long.

Wonyoung stood at the window with her back to you.

She was taller than you'd expected. Taller than she looked on stage, where the camera angles and the choreography and the other members had a way of shrinking her. In person, barefoot on the marble floor, she was statuesque—long legs, a narrow waist, the kind of proportions that designers fought to dress. She wore an ivory silk robe that fell to her ankles, her dark hair loose and straight, still damp at the ends as if she'd just showered.

"It's a nice view," you said.

She didn't turn around. "I used to think so."

Her voice was different from Karina's. Lower. Flatter. Where Karina's words had crackled with suppressed fury, Wonyoung's came out like the air leaking from a tire—slow, deflated, resigned.

You stepped further into the room. "Senior Park said you wanted to meet me."

"Meet you." A short laugh. "That's a polite way of putting it."

"I can leave."

"Can you?" Now she turned. The sight of her face hit you like a physical force—the kind of beauty that felt almost aggressive, all sharp angles and full lips and eyes that were too big for her face. But there was something hollow behind them. Something that had been scooped out and never filled back in. "You can leave. You can stay. You can do whatever you want. I'm just… here."

"How long have you been 'just here'?"

Wonyoung crossed her arms over her chest. The robe was silk, thin enough that you could see the outline of her body beneath it—the curve of her breasts, the flat plane of her stomach, the long lines of her thighs. She wasn't trying to be seductive. She wasn't trying to be anything. That was the most unsettling part.

"A year," she said. "Maybe longer. I stopped counting."

"A year of what?"

"Of waiting. Of pretending. Of showing up to award shows on his arm while everyone in the audience knows he fucked one of his backup dancers the night before." Her jaw tightened. "Do you know what that's like? To smile for cameras while your husband's mistress is standing ten feet away, adjusting her earpiece?"

You didn't answer. You'd learned with Karina that sometimes the best response was no response—just the space to let the words hang in the air until they lost their poison.

Wonyoung uncrossed her arms. Let them fall to her sides. "I'm not looking for sympathy."

"Then what are you looking for?"

"The same thing everyone who calls your agency is looking for." She met your eyes, and for a moment the hollowness flickered—replaced by something harder. Something almost defiant. "I want to feel like I exist. Like I'm not just… a decoration. A trophy. Something he acquired and then forgot about."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-nine."

"And how old is he?"

A pause. "Fifty-two."

You let the number sit there. Fifty-two. Older than her father, probably. Old enough to know better. Old enough to treat a twenty-eight-year-old bride like a collectible—desirable right up until the moment the paperwork was signed, and then irrelevant.

"What does he say when you confront him?" you asked.

Wonyoung's laugh was empty. "He doesn't. He just… leaves. Goes to the studio. Comes back three days later smelling like someone else's perfume. And I'm supposed to pretend I don't notice. I'm supposed to be grateful. He made my career, after all. Half my songs were his. Half my image. Half my life." Her voice cracked on the last word. "I was nineteen when I met him. I didn't know anything. I thought it was love."

"What do you think it was now?"

"Ownership." The word came out flat. "He didn't want a wife. He wanted a muse. Something beautiful to inspire him. And now he's inspired by someone else, and I'm just… here. In this penthouse. With this view. Waiting for him to come home and pretending I don't know where he's been."

You moved closer. Not close enough to touch—not yet—but close enough that she had to tilt her head slightly to keep meeting your eyes.

"What do you want from tonight?"

Wonyoung held your gaze. The defiance was back, stronger now, warring with the exhaustion. "I want to stop waiting. I want to be touched by someone who actually wants to touch me. I want…" She swallowed. "I want to feel like a woman instead of a photograph. Does that make sense?"

"Perfect sense."

"And you can do that? You can… give me that?"

"I can give you whatever you're willing to take." You held out your hand, palm up, the same way you had with Karina three weeks ago. "But I need to hear you say it. I need to know you're sure."

Wonyoung looked at your hand. The hesitation was visible—the same hesitation every client had, the moment before they crossed the line from thinking about it to doing it. The moment where the life they'd been living warred with the life they wanted.

Then she took it.

"I'm sure," she said. "I've been sure for six months. I just didn't know who to call."

"Your safeword?"

"Red."

"And if you can't speak?"

"Three taps. Anywhere you can feel them."

Her palm was cool against yours. Her fingers were long and slender—pianist's fingers, though you knew she didn't play. The silk of her robe brushed against your wrist.

"Before we start," you said, "I want you to know something."

"What?"

"This isn't about your husband. This isn't about revenge. This isn't about making him feel what you've been feeling." You squeezed her hand gently. "This is about you. Right now. In this room. Nothing else exists. Do you understand?"

Wonyoung's lips parted. For a moment she looked younger—not twenty-nine, but nineteen again, standing in a studio somewhere and believing that the famous producer who'd noticed her was offering her the world.

"I understand," she said.

"Good. Now take off the robe."

She released your hand. Her fingers went to the sash at her waist, the silk loosening with a whisper. The robe slipped off her shoulders. Pooled at her feet.

Underneath she wore nothing at all.

Her body was long and lean, with the kind of proportions that seemed almost impossible outside of a magazine spread. Small, high breasts with nipples the color of pale tea. A waist that nipped in dramatically before flaring into hips that had launched a thousand fan cams. Long legs, smooth and toned, the muscles of a dancer visible beneath the skin. A dark triangle of hair at the junction of her thighs, neatly trimmed.

But what struck you most wasn't the beauty. It was the stillness. Karina had been trembling with suppressed energy, her body practically vibrating with need. Wonyoung stood completely motionless, her arms at her sides, her expression unreadable. She looked like a statue—beautiful and cold and utterly detached from the body she occupied.

"You're very beautiful," you said.

"I know." Not arrogant. Just… factual. "People tell me that a lot."

"Do you believe them?"

A flicker of something—surprise, maybe, or confusion. "What?"

"Do you believe them? When they tell you you're beautiful. Do you feel beautiful?"

Wonyoung's brow furrowed. "I don't… I don't know what you mean."

"I think you do." You circled her slowly, the way you'd circle a sculpture in a gallery. "You've been told you're beautiful your whole life. It's on every magazine cover. Every comment section. Every introduction. But when you look in the mirror, what do you see?"

Her voice was quieter now. "I see what everyone else sees."

"That's not what I asked."

You stopped behind her. The view from here was just as striking—the sweep of her back, the curve of her ass, the way her hair fell in a dark curtain between her shoulder blades. She hadn't turned to follow you. She was still facing the window, still looking at the river and the lights.

"I asked what you see," you continued. "Not what they see. Not what the cameras see. What you see."

The silence stretched. Outside, a boat moved across the Han River, its lights reflecting in the dark water.

"Nothing," Wonyoung said finally. "I see nothing. I see a body that exists to be looked at. A face that exists to be photographed. When I look in the mirror, I don't see a person. I see…" She trailed off.

"A product."

"Yes." The word was barely audible. "A product. Something that was packaged and sold before I understood what I was agreeing to."

You stepped closer. Close enough that the heat of your body registered against her bare back. Close enough that if she leaned back even an inch, she'd be touching you.

"That ends tonight," you said. "Tonight, you're not a product. You're not a photograph. You're not what your husband neglected or what the cameras captured. You're a woman. Just a woman. And I'm going to make you feel like one."

Wonyoung's breathing had changed. Shallower. Faster. Her shoulders rose and fell in the window's reflection.

"How?" she asked.

"First, I'm going to touch you. Not the way a photographer touches you. Not the way a stylist touches you. I'm going to touch you the way a man touches a woman he wants." You raised your hand and let it hover just above her shoulder—not making contact, but close enough that she could feel the heat of your palm. "And you're going to stand right here and let yourself feel it. All of it. Every sensation. Do you understand?"

Her voice was a whisper. "Yes."

"Good."

You let your hand settle on her shoulder.

The contact was light—just your palm against her skin, your fingers curving over the ridge of her collarbone. But Wonyoung's reaction was immediate. Her breath stuttered. Her spine stiffened. The muscles beneath your hand went rigid, then slowly, gradually, began to soften.

"When's the last time someone touched you?" you asked.

"I don't…" She swallowed. "I don't remember."

"Months?"

"Longer. Before the wedding, maybe. He was… interested then. Before he had me. After that…" She shook her head.

You moved your hand down her arm. Slowly. Deliberately. Letting your fingers trace the curve of her bicep, the dip of her elbow, the smooth skin of her forearm. Goosebumps rose in the wake of your touch.

"Close your eyes," you said.

She did. Her lashes swept down against her cheeks, dark against the pale skin.

"Now I want you to focus on what you're feeling. Not what you're thinking. Not what you're worried about. Just the physical sensation. My hand on your skin. The heat of my body behind you. The cool air on the rest of you. Can you do that?"

"I can try."

"Don't try. Just do."

You brought your other hand to her waist. The silk of the robe had been thin, but her bare skin was thinner—softer, warmer, alive in a way the fabric never could be. You felt the slight give of flesh over muscle, the delicate architecture of her ribs. Wonyoung's lips parted. A tremor ran through her.

"Good," you murmured. "That's it. Stay present. Stay here."

Your hands moved together now—one sliding up to cup her breast, the other tracing the curve of her hip. The contact was gentle, almost reverent. You weren't trying to arouse her yet. You were trying to wake her up. To remind her body that it was capable of sensation beyond the clinical touches of stylists and makeup artists and the indifferent hands of a husband who'd long since stopped seeing her as anything but an acquisition.

Her breast was small and firm, fitting perfectly in your palm. The nipple was already tightening—an involuntary response, the body's language for yes, this, more. You circled it with your thumb, not quite touching the peak, letting the anticipation build.

"Oh," she breathed. Just that. Just the single syllable, but it was the most human sound she'd made since you'd arrived.

"You feel that?"

"Yes."

"What does it feel like?"

"Warm. It feels… warm. And tingly. Like—like pins and needles, but soft."

"That's your body waking up." You brushed your thumb across her nipple, finally making contact. The peak was hard now, pebbled and tight. Wonyoung's breath caught. Her hips shifted—an instinctive movement, barely conscious. "That's your body remembering what it feels like to be touched."

"Don't stop," she whispered.

"I'm not stopping. I'm just getting started."

You turned her around to face you. Her eyes were still closed, her lips slightly parted, a flush spreading across her chest. The cool, detached statue from five minutes ago was already beginning to thaw.

"Open your eyes," you said.

She did. The hollowness was still there, but it had receded slightly—pushed back by something warmer. Something hungrier.

"Lie down on the bed," you said. "On your back. I'm going to touch every inch of you, and you're going to stay present for all of it. No disappearing. No retreating into your head. You're going to feel everything. Do you understand?"

Wonyoung's voice was steadier now. "Yes."

"Good. Then let's begin."

She walked toward the bedroom—the same statuesque stride, but looser now, less guarded. The ivory robe stayed in a puddle on the floor behind her, already forgotten.

You followed her. The penthouse bedroom was all windows on one side, the city lights glittering below like a mirror image of the stars. A king-sized bed dominated the center of the room. White sheets. Too many pillows. The same story, different setting.

Wonyoung lay down in the center of the mattress. Arranged herself with her arms at her sides, her hair spread across the pillow, her legs slightly apart. The position was almost clinical—like she was posing for a photograph. Muscle memory.

"Relax your arms," you said. "Above your head."

She lifted them. The movement pulled her breasts higher, flattened her stomach.

"Close your eyes."

Her lashes swept down.

You knelt on the bed beside her. In the silence, you could hear her breathing—quicker than before, but still controlled. Still holding onto something. You would need to break through that control. Not with force. With patience. With attention. With the kind of touch she'd been starved of for years.

"Now," you said, letting your hand hover over her stomach. "Let's find out what Jang Wonyoung feels like when she stops being a photograph and starts being a woman."

Your palm settled on her skin.

And Wonyoung began to tremble.

Your palm settled on Wonyoung's stomach.

The trembling started small—a flutter of muscle beneath warm skin—then spread outward, rippling through her thighs, her belly, the flat plane of her chest. She kept her eyes closed, arms still arranged above her head in that posing-for-a-photograph way that had become second nature.

"You're shaking," you said.

"I know." Her voice was thinner now. "I can't seem to stop."

"Don't stop. Let it happen."

Your hand moved in a slow circle, tracing the faint definition of her abdominal muscles. The skin here was softer than you'd expected—yielding, warm, the kind of softness that came from being young and healthy and well-cared-for in every way except the one that mattered. Wonyoung's breath stuttered when your palm grazed the bottom of her ribcage.

"What are you feeling?"

"Your hand." A pause. "It's… warmer than I expected."

"What else?"

"I don't know. It's been so long since—" She swallowed. The movement traveled down her throat, a subtle ripple. "Since anyone touched me without an agenda. My stylists touch me to adjust my clothes. Photographers touch me to fix my hair. Seok-joong…" The name came out like a curse. "He doesn't touch me at all."

You traced the lower curve of her breast. Not the nipple—not yet—just the swell where her chest began to rise. The skin was impossibly smooth, pale as cream in the city light streaming through the windows.

"When's the last time you touched yourself?"

Wonyoung's eyes opened. The question had surprised her. "What?"

"You heard me."

"I don't…" Her brow furrowed. "I don't do that."

"You don't masturbate?"

The word made her flinch. A tiny recoil, barely visible, but you caught it. "That's not something I—I mean, I've never really—"

"Never?" You kept your hand where it was, still and warm against the curve of her breast. "You've never made yourself come?"

Wonyoung closed her eyes again. A flush was spreading from her chest up her neck, blooming across her collarbones like spilled wine. "Once. Maybe twice. A long time ago. Before I debuted. Before everything got so…" She trailed off.

"So controlled."

"Yes."

"Show me."

Her eyes flew open. "What?"

"Sit up." You withdrew your hand and sat back on your heels. "I want to watch you touch yourself. I want to see how Jang Wonyoung pleasures her own body when no one else is looking."

The hesitation was visible—a war playing out behind her eyes. The trained idol, the curated image, the woman who'd spent her entire adult life being looked at without ever being touched. Then something shifted. A crack in the facade. Her lips parted.

"Okay," she whispered.

She sat up slowly. The movement was graceful despite her trembling—dancer's muscle memory, the body knowing what to do even when the mind was unmoored. She propped herself against the headboard, the white sheets pooling around her hips. Her breasts were small and high on her chest, the nipples still tight from your earlier attention.

"Lie back," you said. "Spread your legs. Let me see all of you."

Wonyoung arranged herself against the pillows. Her thighs parted with visible reluctance—not resistance, but the shyness of a woman who'd been taught that her body was a commodity, not a source of pleasure. The dark triangle of hair between her legs was neatly trimmed, the lips beneath barely visible in the dim light.

"Touch your breasts first," you said. "The way you like it."

Her hands lifted. The movement was hesitant, almost clinical, like she was examining herself rather than pleasuring herself. Her fingers brushed her nipples and she gasped—a sharp, surprised sound.

"That's it. They're sensitive, aren't they?"

"Yes—I didn't know—no one's ever—"

"No one's ever played with your nipples?"

"No." The word came out strangled. Her fingers circled the tight peaks, tracing the areolae with tentative strokes. "Seok-joong said breasts were for—ah—for looking at. Not for—"

"Not for touching."

"Not for touching."

You watched her hands grow bolder. The circles became pinches—gentle at first, then harder, the way you'd done earlier. Her back arched slightly. Her mouth fell open.

"Good girl. Now move one hand lower. Touch yourself between your legs."

Wonyoung's right hand slid down her stomach. The trembling was worse now—her whole body vibrating with a tension that had nothing to do with cold and everything to do with the forbidden nature of what she was doing. Her fingers reached the dark curls and stopped.

"I don't know if I can—"

"You can. Part your lips for me. Show me your cunt."

The vulgar word made her gasp. But her fingers obeyed—they slid through the trimmed hair, parted the outer lips, exposed the pink flesh within. Even from where you knelt, you could see the gleam of moisture. The way her inner lips clung together, then separated with a wet, sticky sound.

"You're wet," you said. "You're wet and you haven't even touched your clit yet."

"Is that—is that normal?"

"It's more than normal. It's beautiful. You're beautiful." You leaned closer. "Now find your clit. The little pearl at the top. Touch it."

Wonyoung's middle finger found the swollen bud. The contact made her whole body jerk. A sound escaped her—half moan, half whimper—and her thighs snapped shut around her hand.

"Keep them open. I want to watch."

"I can't—it's too—"

"You can. Open your legs, Wonyoung. Let me see what your body does when you stop being a photograph."

She forced her thighs apart. The effort was visible—muscles trembling, breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts. Her finger began to circle her clit in slow, tentative strokes. The hood pulled back with each pass, revealing the slick pearl beneath. Her other hand stayed on her breast, pinching and rolling the nipple in counterpoint.

"There," she breathed. "Oh—there—that feels—"

"What does it feel like?"

"Tight. Hot. Like—like something's building. Like I need to—" Her circling grew faster. "Like I need to—"

"You need to come."

"Yes." The word was a sob. "Yes. I need to come. Please. I've never—not with anyone watching—not with anyone—"

"Come for me, Wonyoung. Let go. I've got you."

Her body seized. Her back arched off the mattress, her head thrown back, her mouth open in a silent scream. The hand between her legs moved frantically—rubbing, pressing, chasing the climax that was crashing over her. A keening sound escaped her throat, high and desperate.

Then she collapsed.

Her chest heaved. Her thighs quivered. The hand on her breast fell away, and the other remained pressed against her cunt—not moving now, just holding, as if she couldn't bear to let go of the sensation.

"That was your first orgasm with an audience," you said.

Wonyoung's laugh was breathless, almost giddy. "That was my first orgasm. Period. I don't think the other times—I don't think they were real. Not like that."

"Not like that."

"No." She opened her eyes and looked at you. The hollowness was gone—replaced by something brighter, something almost hungry. "I want more. I want—" She swallowed. "I want you inside me. But I want to be in control. Just this once. I want to decide."

You raised an eyebrow. "You want to ride me."

"Yes." The word came out stronger now. "I've spent my whole life being positioned. Being told where to stand and how to pose and what to wear. I want—just this once—I want to be the one who decides. Does that make sense?"

"It makes perfect sense."

You stood up from the bed and unbuckled your pants. Wonyoung watched with open curiosity—the way her eyes tracked the movement of your hands, the way her lips parted when you pushed your boxers down and your cock sprang free. She'd seen it earlier, of course, but now she looked at it differently. Like she was sizing it up. Like she was planning.

"It's thicker than I thought," she murmured.

"Is that a problem?"

"No." A small smile played at the corner of her mouth. "It's just… I've never seen one this close before. Not like this. Seok-joong and I—the few times we—it was always in the dark. Always over quickly. He never let me look."

"Look all you want."

She did. Her gaze traveled the length of your shaft—the vein that pulsed along the underside, the ridge of the head, the way the skin pulled tight when you were fully hard. Her tongue darted out and wet her lips.

"Lie down," she said. "On your back."

You obeyed. The sheets were cool against your shoulders. Wonyoung rose on her knees and swung one long leg over your hips, straddling you. The position put her cunt directly above your cock—you could see the pink of her inner lips, still slick from her orgasm, still parted and ready. A drop of her arousal fell onto your stomach.

"Like this?" she asked.

"Reverse."

"What?"

"Turn around. Face my feet. Reverse cowgirl."

Wonyoung blinked. Then understanding dawned, and with it came something you hadn't seen on her face before—a flicker of genuine excitement. "I've seen this position. In… things I've watched. When I was alone."

"Then you know how it works."

She turned around. The movement was awkward—she had to lift one leg, then the other, bracing herself with a hand on your thigh—but the awkwardness was part of the appeal. She wasn't performing. She wasn't posing. She was just a woman figuring out how to take what she wanted.

When she settled into position, facing away from you, the view was spectacular. The long sweep of her back. The curve of her ass, round and firm. The dark cleft between her cheeks, and below that, her cunt—still wet, still open, positioned directly above your cock.

"Reach back," you said. "Take hold of me."

Her hand fumbled behind her. Fingers brushed your shaft, then your balls, then closed around the base. Her grip was tentative—too light, too careful—but she guided the head to her entrance anyway. The contact made her gasp.

"Oh god. You're so—I can feel how big you are just from this—"

"Take your time. You're in control."

Wonyoung lowered herself an inch. The head of your cock pressed against her opening, parting the slick lips. The heat of her was incredible—wet and tight and pulsing with the aftershocks of her orgasm. She stopped there, breathing hard, her thighs trembling on either side of your hips.

"I don't know if I can—"

"You can. Slowly. Just a little at a time."

She sank down another inch. The head slipped inside her, and Wonyoung cried out—a sharp, startled sound that was half pain and half pleasure. Her inner walls clenched around you, a rippling squeeze that traveled from tip to base.

"Fuck—fuck, you're stretching me—"

"You're doing so well. Take what you need."

Another inch. Then another. Her cunt was impossibly tight—tighter than Karina's, tighter than anyone you'd been with in recent memory. The walls gripped you like a fist, hot and slick and pulsing. Wonyoung's breathing had gone ragged. Her head dropped forward. Her hands braced on your thighs, nails digging in.

"I'm only halfway—oh god—I'm only halfway and I already feel so full—"

"Keep going. You wanted control. Take it."

She took it. Her hips dropped the rest of the way, and your cock buried itself to the hilt inside her. Wonyoung screamed. The sound was raw and uncontrolled—nothing like the polished idol voice, nothing like the careful, measured tones she'd used earlier. This was pure animal. Pure sensation.

"Oh fuck—oh fuck—you're in my stomach—I can feel you in my stomach—"

"Good. Now move."

She lifted her hips. The drag of her walls against your shaft made your vision swim. When she dropped back down, the impact sent a visible ripple through her ass. The cheeks jiggled with the force of it.

"Yes—" She did it again. Faster. "Yes—this is—this is what I wanted—this is what I needed—"

"Tell me what it feels like."

"Full. So full. Like—like I'm being split open. Like I'm being—ah—like I'm being claimed." She was moving faster now, finding a rhythm, her hips rolling in a way that spoke to years of dance training. The muscles in her back flexed and released with each stroke. "But I'm the one claiming you. I'm the one—I'm the one in control—"

"That's right. You're in control. Take your pleasure, Wonyoung. Take all of it."

Her pace quickened. The wet sounds of her cunt filled the bedroom—a slick, rhythmic slap every time she bottomed out. Your cock was coated in her arousal, glistening in the city light. She reached back with one hand and grabbed your chest—not for balance, but for leverage, pulling herself harder onto you with each stroke.

"Touch my—touch my breasts—please—I need—"

You reached up and cupped her breasts from behind. The position was awkward but the effect was immediate—Wonyoung's rhythm faltered, then resumed faster than before. You pinched her nipples and she sobbed.

"Yes—yes—harder—"

You twisted. She keened. Her hips became a blur—up and down, up and down, fucking herself on your cock with a desperation that bordered on violence. Her head was thrown back now, her dark hair cascading down her spine, her whole body sheened with sweat.

"I'm close—I'm getting close again—I can feel it building—"

"Look at you. Jang Wonyoung. The nation's sweetheart. Riding a stranger's cock in her marital bed. Moaning like an animal. Dripping down my thighs."

"Yes—yes—I'm dripping—I'm making a mess—Seok-joong would hate this—he'd hate how wet I am—he'd hate how—how much I love it—"

"How much do you love it?"

"So much—so fucking much—I love being full—I love being stretched—I love being in control—I love that you're letting me—" Her voice cracked. "I love that you're letting me take what I need—"

The tears started then.

They came without warning—a sudden spill from her eyes, tracking down her cheeks and dripping onto your thighs. Her rhythm faltered. Her breathing hitched and broke into sobs.

"I'm sorry—I'm sorry—I don't know why I'm—"

"Don't stop." You squeezed her breasts gently. "Don't apologize. Keep moving. Let it out."

"I can't—I can't stop crying—" But her hips kept moving. Slower now, but still moving. "It's just—it's been so long—I've been so alone—"

"I know."

"No one touches me. No one looks at me. No one wants me. I'm just—I'm just a thing he bought and forgot about—"

"You're not a thing. You're a woman. A beautiful, passionate woman who deserves to be touched and wanted and pleasured. Keep moving. Let yourself feel it."

The sobs grew louder. Her hips moved faster, chasing the release that was building despite—or maybe because of—the tears. Her hand tightened on your chest, nails digging crescents into your skin.

"I want to come—please—please let me come—"

"It's yours. Take it. Come on my cock, Wonyoung. Come while you're crying. Come while you're in control. Show me what you look like when you let go."

She shattered.

The orgasm hit her like a wave—a convulsive, full-body spasm that made her back arch and her thighs clamp around your hips. Her cunt seized around your shaft, a rhythmic pulsing that milked you from base to tip. The scream that tore from her throat was wordless and raw, echoing off the penthouse windows.

And then she squirted.

The fluid gushed around your cock—a hot, copious flood that soaked your thighs and the sheets beneath you. Wonyoung's hips kept moving through it, grinding down onto you, drawing out every pulse of her climax. The squelching sounds were obscene. Her sobs mingled with moans.

"Oh god—oh god, I'm still—it's still going—I can't stop—"

"Don't stop. Take everything."

She rode the orgasm until her thighs gave out. Then she collapsed backward, her spine landing against your chest, her head falling back onto your shoulder. Her cunt was still spasming weakly around your cock. Her chest heaved. Her face was a wreck—tears and sweat and smeared mascara that she hadn't been wearing.

You wrapped your arms around her waist and held her.

The silence stretched. Outside, the Han River glittered in the darkness, indifferent to everything happening in this penthouse. Wonyoung's breathing gradually slowed. The tremors in her thighs subsided.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"You don't have to thank me."

"I know. I want to." She turned her head, her cheek pressed against your chest. "No one's ever… I've never cried during sex before. I've never cried at all. Not since the wedding. I thought I'd forgotten how."

"Tears are just your body's way of releasing what you've been holding too long."

She laughed—a small, wet sound. "You sound like a therapist."

"I've had practice."

Silence again. Then, quieter: "Will you stay? Not—not for more sex. Just… stay. Until I fall asleep. I don't want to be alone tonight."

You pressed a kiss to her damp temple. "I'll stay."

Wonyoung sighed. The sound was different from before—not resignation, but relief. The relief of a woman who'd finally let go of something she'd been carrying for years.

"Good," she murmured. "That's good."

She closed her eyes. In the penthouse bedroom, with the city lights glittering below and your cock still half-hard inside her, Jang Wonyoung finally stopped trembling.

You held her until her breathing evened out. Until her body went slack against yours. Until the tears on her cheeks dried to salt and the wetness between her thighs cooled on your skin.

Tomorrow, you'd leave. Tomorrow, she'd go back to being Jang Wonyoung, idol-turned-trophy-wife, and you'd go back to whatever Senior Park had lined up next.

But tonight, she wasn't a photograph. Tonight, she was just a woman who'd remembered how to feel.

And that, you'd learned, was worth more than any paycheck the agency could offer.

Waking came in stages.

First, the soft gray light of early morning pressing against your eyelids. The penthouse windows had no curtains—Wonyoung liked to wake with the sun, you'd learn later—and the Han River was a sheet of hammered silver outside the glass.

Second, the weight. Or rather, the absence of it. Sometime in the night she'd shifted off your chest, and now the mattress beside you was warm but empty.

Third, the sensation.

Wet. Hot. A rhythmic pressure that started at the base of your cock and traveled upward in slow, deliberate pulls. Your hips stirred before your mind caught up—an instinctive response, the body recognizing pleasure before the brain had finished booting up.

You opened your eyes.

Wonyoung was between your legs.

Her dark hair spilled across your thighs in a tangled mess, still sleep-mussed from the night before. The sheet had slipped off her shoulders, leaving her bare—the long sweep of her spine, the curve of her ass, the soles of her feet crossed at the ankle behind her. She'd positioned herself on her stomach, propped on her elbows, and her mouth was wrapped around your cock.

She was still learning. The technique was messier than Karina's had been—more enthusiasm than skill, more eagerness than precision. Her tongue moved in uncertain patterns, tracing the ridge of the head, then the vein underneath, then back again as if she couldn't decide which part she wanted to taste most. Saliva pooled at the corners of her lips and dripped down your shaft, slicking her fingers where they curled around the base.

But what she lacked in experience, she made up for in something else. Something rarer.

She was happy.

You could see it in the way her cheeks bunched—the muscles straining to smile even with her lips stretched wide. In the little hums that vibrated through your shaft every time she took you deeper. In the way her hips wiggled slightly, a tiny dance of satisfaction, like a cat kneading a favorite blanket.

You chuckled. The sound was rough with sleep.

Wonyoung's eyes flicked up to meet yours. They were clearer than they'd been last night—the hollowness replaced by something bright and mischievous. She didn't stop sucking. If anything, she redoubled her efforts, her head bobbing faster, her tongue working the underside of your shaft with renewed determination.

"What a cheeky girl," you murmured.

Your hand found her head. Your fingers threaded through the dark tangles of her hair, not pulling, not directing—just holding. Just letting her feel the weight of your palm against her scalp. Wonyoung's eyes fluttered closed. The hum she made this time was different—softer, more satisfied. A sound of pure contentment.

She pulled back until just the tip remained in her mouth. Her tongue circled the head—once, twice, a slow figure-eight that made your breath catch. Then she pushed forward again, taking you deeper than before, and you felt the head of your cock bump the back of her throat.

She gagged. Coughed. Pulled back with a wet, gasping laugh.

"Too much?" you asked.

"Not enough." Her voice was hoarse—fucked raw from the night before, from the screaming and the crying and now this. "I wanted to… I woke up and you were still here and I just wanted to…"

"To what?"

"To taste you. Before you left." She rested her cheek against your thigh, her breath warm on your damp skin. "Is that weird?"

"No." You stroked her hair. "It's not weird."

"I've never done that before. The morning thing. I've never woken up next to someone and thought… I want to make them feel good. Just because." Her fingers traced idle patterns on your hip. "I've never woken up next to anyone, actually. Seok-joong never stayed the night. Even when we were engaged. He said he couldn't sleep in unfamiliar beds."

"His own bed was unfamiliar?"

Wonyoung's laugh was bitter. "I was the unfamiliar part."

You sat up. The movement dislodged her from your thigh, and she rose with you—sitting back on her heels, her hair a wild curtain around her shoulders, her lips swollen and slick. The morning light caught the angles of her face, the sharp cheekbones and the full mouth, and for a moment she looked exactly like the magazine covers. The nation's sweetheart. The girl who'd debuted at fourteen and never stopped smiling for cameras.

But the smile she gave you now was different. Smaller. Realer. A smile that belonged to her and no one else.

"Come here," you said.

She came. You gathered her in your arms and lifted her—bridal style, her long legs draped over one arm, her head cradled against your shoulder. She was lighter than you'd expected. All those years of dieting for comebacks, probably. All those years of being told she needed to be smaller, thinner, more perfect.

"The shower," you said. "We're both a mess."

"Your fault." But she was grinning as she said it.

"Entirely."

The bathroom was all white marble and chrome fixtures, with a rainfall showerhead even larger than Karina's. You set Wonyoung down on the heated tile floor—her bare feet made a soft sound against the stone—and reached into the glass enclosure to turn on the water. Steam began to fill the room almost immediately.

She stepped into the shower first. You followed.

The water was hot but not scalding, beating down on your shoulders and back in a steady rhythm. Wonyoung tilted her face up into the spray, letting it run over her closed eyelids and down her throat. The mascara she hadn't been wearing was still absent, and without it she looked younger. Not twenty-nine. Not the weary trophy wife from last night. Just a woman in the morning, clean and bare and unguarded.

You reached for the body wash—something floral, jasmine maybe—and worked it into a lather between your palms.

"Turn around," you said.

She did. You started with her shoulders, the same way you had with Karina. The same ritual. The same aftercare. The same reminder that what happened in the bedroom wasn't just about sex—it was about being seen. Being handled. Being treated like a body that mattered.

Wonyoung sighed as your hands moved down her back. "You do this for all your clients?"

"The shower?"

"The… gentleness. The talking. The staying until morning."

"Most of them." You worked the soap into the dip of her spine, the curve of her hips. "The ones who need it."

"And how do you know which ones need it?"

You turned her around to face you. Water sluiced down between you, washing away the suds. Her eyes were level with your collarbone; she had to tilt her head back to meet your gaze.

"Because they're the ones who cry," you said. "And you cried."

Wonyoung's expression flickered—something passing through it too fast to name. Then she reached up and took the body wash from the shelf behind you. Poured some into her own palm. Worked it into a lather.

"Your turn," she said.

Her hands on your chest were tentative at first—the same hesitance from last night, the same uncertainty about what she was allowed to do. But as she grew bolder, her touch firmed. Her palms traced the lines of your pectorals, the ridges of your abdomen, the V of your hips. She was washing you, but she was also learning you. Mapping the geography of a body that wasn't hers.

"You're different from what I expected," she said.

"Different how?"

"I don't know. Less… transactional." She rinsed her hands under the spray. "When I called the agency, I thought it would be like ordering room service. Something mechanical. Something I could pretend didn't happen afterward. But this is…"

"This is?"

She looked up at you. The water had plastered her hair to her skull, darkened it to near-black. Droplets clung to her lashes.

"Real," she said. "This feels real."

You cupped her face in your hands. Your thumbs traced the sharp line of her cheekbones, the soft skin beneath her eyes. She leaned into the touch—pressed her cheek against your palm like a cat seeking warmth.

"It is real," you said. "Whatever happens in this room, whatever you feel—it's real. The pleasure is real. The tears are real. You're not pretending anymore. You're not performing. You're just… here."

"Just here." She tested the words. "I like that. I've never been 'just here' anywhere. There's always been a camera. Or a manager. Or a husband who wanted me to be somewhere else."

"Not here."

"Not here." She rose on her toes. Her lips brushed yours—soft, tentative, a question more than a statement. "Thank you."

"You already thanked me."

"I know. I want to do it again. Properly." She kissed you again, deeper this time. Her lips parted, and her tongue traced the seam of your mouth—asking permission, not demanding it. You opened for her, and she made a small sound, something between a sigh and a hum, as her tongue met yours.

The kiss was different from the ones last night. Last night had been hungry. Desperate. A woman starving for contact and finally given permission to eat. This kiss was slower. Sweeter. A kiss of gratitude rather than need.

Her arms wrapped around your neck. Your hands found her waist. The water beat down on both of you, and the steam rose around you like a curtain, and for a long moment there was nothing in the world but this—the heat and the wet and the soft pressure of her mouth on yours.

When she finally pulled back, her lips were pinker than before. Kiss-swollen. The color had risen in her cheeks.

"I put my number in your phone," she said.

"You what?"

"While you were sleeping. Earlier. Before I…" She gestured vaguely downward, toward the general vicinity of your crotch. "I wanted to make sure you had it. In case you wanted to call. In case you wanted to…"

"To what?"

"To see me again. Not as a client. Not through the agency. Just… me." Her voice had gone smaller. The confidence from moments ago was fading, replaced by the same vulnerability you'd seen last night. "Is that allowed? Is that something you do?"

You considered the question. The agency had rules about this—Senior Park was very clear about keeping things professional, about not blurring the lines between service and relationship. But Senior Park wasn't here. And Wonyoung was looking at you with those too-big eyes, the ones that had been empty last night and were now full of something fragile and hopeful.

"It's allowed," you said. "But I should warn you—I'm not a boyfriend. I'm not going to be. Whatever this is, it's not going to become something else."

"I know." She didn't look disappointed. If anything, she looked relieved. "I don't want a boyfriend. I don't want another man who owns me. I just want… someone who sees me. Someone who touches me like I'm real. Someone who'll answer when I call." A pause. "Will you answer?"

"Every time."

She kissed you again—quick and fierce, a press of lips that was more gratitude than passion. Then she stepped back, out of the spray, and reached for a towel.

"You should go," she said. "Before I ask you to stay again."

The elevator ride down was quiet. No muzak. No mirrored walls. Just brushed steel and the soft hum of hydraulics and the memory of Wonyoung's voice: Please… call me again.

You checked your phone in the lobby. There it was, in your contacts, added sometime in the early morning hours while you were still asleep: Wonyoung ♡. The heart was a nice touch. A little cheeky. A little hopeful.

You smiled despite yourself.

Three days passed.

Senior Park called on a Friday.

"New client," he said, the same way he always did—that particular lilt in his voice that meant he was enjoying himself. "Actress. Very famous. Very married. Although her marriage is…" A pause. "Complicated."

"Complicated how?"

"You'll see. She's been asking for you specifically. Apparently your reputation is spreading."

"Who is it?"

"Moon Ga Young."

The name made you stop walking. You were on the street in Gangnam, the afternoon sun beating down on your neck, and for a moment you just stood there with the phone pressed to your ear.

"Moon Ga Young? The actress?"

"The one and only. Star of True Beauty. The Interest of Love. Half a dozen other dramas I've never watched but my wife loves." The rustle of papers on his end. "She's staying at the Signiel. Suite 2704. Tonight, eight o'clock."

"Wait." You stepped into the shade of a building, out of the flow of pedestrian traffic. "Moon Ga Young is married? I didn't know that."

"Neither did anyone else. She kept it quiet. Very quiet. No press, no announcement, no wedding photos in the tabloids." Park's voice had gone sly. "The husband is some finance executive. American. Works in New York. They've been married for two years, and in those two years, he's been in Seoul for a total of six weeks. You do the math."

Six weeks out of a hundred and four. You did the math.

"Same story," you said.

"Same story, different window. The view from the Signiel is nicer, though. She's booked the suite for the whole weekend. Says she wants to take her time." Another pause. "She also said—and I quote—'Tell him I'm not fragile. Tell him I don't need the gentle version.' End quote."

You raised an eyebrow. "She said that?"

"Word for word. I think you're in for an interesting night."

The line went dead.

The Signiel Seoul occupied the 76th through 101st floors of the Lotte World Tower. It was the kind of hotel where the lobby was on the 79th floor and the elevator ride up made your ears pop. The kind of hotel where the staff wore suits that cost more than your monthly rent and the vases in the hallways were probably worth more than your car.

Suite 2704 was at the end of a quiet corridor. The door was a slab of dark wood with a brass number, and when you knocked, the sound was swallowed by the thick carpet.

"Come in. It's open."

The voice was lower than you'd expected. Smokier. The kind of voice that belonged in a noir film, all shadows and secrets.

You pushed the door open.

The suite was magnificent. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the Seoul skyline, the city lights glittering below like a spill of diamonds. The furniture was modern and understated—a low gray sofa, a glass coffee table, an abstract painting that was probably worth more than everything you owned. The bedroom was visible through an open doorway, the bed enormous and white and untouched.

And there, on the balcony, stood Moon Ga Young.

She was smaller in person than she appeared on screen. The camera had a way of adding presence, of making actors seem larger than life. In reality, she was petite—barely over five feet, with delicate wrists and a narrow frame that made her look almost breakable. Her hair was long and dark, falling past her shoulders in loose waves. Her face was the same one you'd seen in a dozen dramas—the wide eyes, the full lips, the delicate bone structure that made her look younger than her thirty-something years.

But the robe she was wearing was anything but delicate.

It was silk, pale champagne in color, and almost entirely transparent. The fabric clung to her body like a whisper, revealing the outline of her breasts, the curve of her waist, the dark triangle between her thighs. She wore nothing beneath it. The robe was held closed by a single sash, loosely tied, and as she turned to face you, the front gaped open slightly—just enough to confirm that yes, she was completely naked under there.

In one hand, she held a flute of champagne. The liquid was pale gold, the bubbles rising in lazy spirals.

"You're punctual," she said. "I like that."

"Senior Park said you didn't want the gentle version."

"Did he?" A smile played at the corner of her mouth. "I said I didn't need it. There's a difference." She raised the champagne flute to her lips and took a sip. Her eyes never left yours. "Would you like a drink? There's a bottle on the minibar. It's not cheap—I made sure of that."

"I'm working."

"So am I. Or at least, I'm about to be." The smile widened. "One drink won't hurt. Consider it part of the negotiation."

You crossed to the minibar. The champagne was vintage, the label one you recognized from a previous client's penthouse. You poured yourself a glass—not because you wanted it, but because refusing would mean ceding the rhythm of the encounter to her. And Ga Young, you were already beginning to understand, was someone who was used to setting the rhythm.

She joined you at the sofa. The robe gaped further as she sat, revealing the pale curve of one breast. She didn't bother to adjust it.

"So," she said, settling back against the cushions. "You're the man who made Karina cry."

You paused with the glass halfway to your lips. "She told you?"

"She told someone, who told someone, who told me. The idol world is small. Smaller than you'd think." Ga Young swirled her champagne. "The rumor is that you were… thorough. That you gave her exactly what she needed. That you didn't treat her like glass."

"I don't treat anyone like glass."

"No. I don't imagine you do." She leaned forward, setting her glass on the coffee table. The movement made the robe fall open completely, exposing the full length of her body. She didn't seem to notice. Or if she noticed, she didn't care. "Here's the thing. I've been married for two years. In those two years, I've had sex exactly four times. All of them on our wedding night. After that, my husband decided he preferred New York to Seoul. He calls me once a week, usually from his office, usually while he's doing something else. Reading emails. Checking stocks. He's never once asked me how I'm feeling."

"Does he know you're here?"

"He knows I'm at a hotel. He doesn't know why." Ga Young's smile was sharp. "He probably thinks I'm having a spa weekend. That's what he'd do, if he thought about it at all. 'Ga Young's having a spa weekend. How nice for her.'" The mimicry was cruel and precise. "He doesn't know me well enough to suspect anything else."

"And what are you looking for tonight?"

She leaned back. The robe fell open completely now, pooling on the cushions around her. She was leaner than Karina, leaner than Wonyoung—the body of a woman who'd spent years in front of cameras, who'd been told she needed to be thinner, always thinner. Her breasts were small, the nipples a pale pink. Her stomach was flat. The hair between her thighs was dark and neatly trimmed.

"I'm not looking for therapy," she said. "I'm not looking for someone to hold me while I cry. I'm not looking for validation or reassurance or any of the things your other clients probably need." She uncrossed her legs and crossed them again. The movement was deliberate. Performative. "I'm looking for a good fuck. That's it. That's all. I want to be fucked so hard I forget my own name. I want to walk bowlegged tomorrow. I want to feel like a woman instead of a mannequin. Can you do that?"

You set your champagne glass down next to hers. "Safeword?"

"Red."

"Tap-out?"

"Three taps. Anywhere." She cocked her head. "You're very professional. I like that too."

"Part of the service."

"Then let's get started." She stood up. The robe stayed on the sofa, a champagne-colored puddle of silk. "The bedroom's through there. I want you to use every inch of that bed. I want you to use every inch of me. And I want you to stop treating me like I'm going to break." She walked toward the bedroom, her bare feet silent on the thick carpet. At the doorway, she paused and looked back over her shoulder. "I'm not going to break. I promise."

The bedroom was all windows on one side, the city lights spread out below like a circuit board. The bed was king-sized, the sheets white, the pillows arranged in a perfect geometric pattern. Ga Young climbed onto the mattress and positioned herself in the center—on her back, her arms above her head, her legs slightly apart. The pose was deliberate. A parody of submission. The same way she'd done everything so far—with a wink, with a smirk, with the implicit understanding that she was playing a role.

"The last time I had sex," she said, "was my wedding night. He was drunk. I was nervous. It lasted maybe six minutes. He fell asleep immediately afterward, and when I woke up the next morning, he was already on a plane to New York." She looked at the ceiling. "I didn't have an orgasm. I've never had an orgasm with another person. Not once. I'm thirty-four years old, and I've been faking it since I was twenty."

You unbuttoned your shirt. "You don't have to fake anything tonight."

"I know. That's why you're here." She watched you undress with open appraisal, her eyes tracking the movement of your hands. "I've done my research. I know about the agency. I know about Senior Park. I know about the other women you've been with. The idols. The heiresses. The wives. I know you're discreet. I know you're skilled. I know you're exactly what I need."

"Which is?"

She met your eyes. The smirk was gone. For the first time since you'd walked through the door, her expression was completely serious.

"Someone who isn't afraid of me," she said. "Everyone's afraid of me. My husband's afraid of me. My managers are afraid of me. The directors I work with are afraid of me. I'm Moon Ga Young. I'm the nation's sweetheart. I'm the girl next door who's been in a dozen dramas and never had a scandal." Her voice was flat. "People think I'm delicate. They think I'm fragile. They think I need to be protected. No one's ever looked at me and thought—she wants to be destroyed."

"Do you?"

"Yes." The word was barely a whisper. "God, yes. I want to be destroyed. I want to be ruined. I want someone to look at me and see what I really am, not what the cameras see. Not what my husband sees. Not what the public sees." She swallowed. "I want to feel something real. Even if it's pain. Even if it's rough. Especially if it's rough."

You finished undressing. Your clothes made a pile on the floor—shirt, pants, boxers. Your cock was already half-hard, responding to the challenge in her voice, the directness of her gaze. Ga Young looked at you and didn't flinch.

"Good," she said. "Now come here. I've been waiting two years for this. I'm not waiting any longer."

Moon Ga Young watched you undress with the eyes of a woman who'd spent two decades being looked at and had finally decided to do some looking of her own.

"On your knees."

The command landed in the space between you. Her lips curved—not quite a smile, more a recognition. This was what she'd asked for. This was what she'd been waiting two years to receive.

She slid off the bed. The movement was liquid, all those years of dance training and red carpet practice translating into something that looked effortless. Her knees met the carpet with a soft thud. The city lights through the window painted her bare skin in shades of amber and gold.

"Hands behind your back."

She complied. The position made her small breasts lift, the nipples still pale pink and tight. Her eyes stayed on yours. Defiant. Hungry. The smirk was still there, but it had thinned—become something sharper, more expectant.

You picked up the champagne-colored robe from where it had fallen on the sofa. The silk was cool and slippery in your hands. You pulled the sash free with one sharp tug, and the fabric whispered against itself as it came loose.

"Wrists."

Ga Young's smirk flickered. "You're going to tie me up?"

"I'm going to do a lot of things." You crouched behind her, looping the silk around her wrists. Not too tight—you knew the difference between restraint and injury—but snug enough that she'd feel the pull every time she moved. "You said you wanted to be destroyed. Destruction requires surrender. You can't be in control and be ruined at the same time."

"I know." Her voice was quieter now. The bravado was still there, but something else was bleeding through. Something that sounded almost like relief. "I know. That's the point."

You tied the knot. Tested it with two fingers. "Too tight?"

"No."

"Good."

You stood and walked around to face her. From this angle, with her wrists bound behind her back and her knees pressed into the carpet, she looked smaller than before. More vulnerable. The nation's sweetheart, stripped of her armor, kneeling naked in a hotel suite with her pulse visible in her throat.

"Open your mouth."

Ga Young's lips parted. Her tongue was pink, wet, waiting. You took hold of your cock—fully hard now, thick and veined, the head already slick with the first bead of precum—and guided it toward her waiting mouth.

"Wider."

She stretched her jaw. The corners of her lips went taut. You pressed the head against her tongue, and she made a sound—something between a hum and a whimper—as the taste of you filled her mouth.

"Good girl. Now take it. All of it."

You pushed forward.

The first few inches slid in easily. Her tongue moved beneath your shaft—uncertain at first, then finding its rhythm, tracing the ridge of the head, the sensitive spot just beneath. Her cheeks hollowed as she sucked. The suction was strong, practiced, the muscle memory of a woman who'd done this before even if it had been years.

Then you pushed deeper.

The head of your cock hit the back of her throat, and Ga Young gagged. The sound was wet and sudden—a choked, spluttering cough that made her whole body convulse. Her bound wrists strained against the silk. Her eyes watered. A thick string of saliva dripped from the corner of her mouth and landed on her chest.

"Don't fight it. Relax your throat."

She tried. You could feel her trying—the way her muscles fluttered around your shaft, the way she forced herself to breathe through her nose. But the gag reflex was strong, and when you pushed another inch deeper, she convulsed again.

"Fuck—" The word came out muffled, garbled around your cock.

You pulled back. Let her gasp. A bridge of saliva connected your shaft to her bottom lip, stretching, then breaking.

"I can't—" She coughed again. "I can't take it all. It's too thick—"

"You can." You grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her head back. Her throat was exposed now—a long, pale column, the skin delicate and unmarked. "You said you wanted to be ruined. Ruined means taking cock down your throat until you can't breathe. Ruined means gagging and choking and still pushing deeper. Do you understand?"

Ga Young's eyes met yours. They were wet now, the first tears clinging to her lashes. But behind them, something was blazing. Something that looked almost like joy.

"Yes."

"Then open your mouth."

She did. You pushed inside again, and this time you didn't stop. Your cock slid past her tongue, past the soft palate, into the tight grip of her throat. Ga Young's whole body seized. A guttural, choking sound vibrated through your shaft. Her bound hands clawed at the air behind her back. Her throat muscles clamped down around you—spasming, fighting, then slowly, gradually, yielding.

"There you go. Take it. Take all of it."

Your hips met her face. Your cock was buried to the hilt in her throat, and Ga Young's nose was pressed against your pubic bone. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't speak. Could only gag and choke and let the tears stream down her cheeks while you held her there, impaled on your length.

You held the position for a count of five. Then ten. Her face was turning red. Her body was writhing—not fighting, not trying to escape, but writhing with the sheer overwhelming sensation of being so completely filled.

You pulled back.

Ga Young gasped. The inhale was ragged and desperate, followed by a coughing fit that made her whole body shake. Saliva dripped from her chin. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks blotchy, her carefully arranged hair a tangled mess.

"More," she rasped. "Give me more."

You slapped her.

The crack of your palm against her cheek echoed through the suite. Ga Young's head snapped to the side. A red mark bloomed on her pale skin—the shape of your hand, stark and undeniable.

"Did I tell you to speak?"

She shook her head. The defiance was still there, but it was muted now—submerged beneath something deeper. Something that looked almost like peace.

"Then don't speak. Your mouth has one purpose right now. Do you understand?"

She nodded. Her cheek was still red. The tears had multiplied, tracking mascara-less lines down her face.

"Good. Now show me you understand."

She opened her mouth. Leaned forward. Took your cock between her lips with a hunger that bordered on worship. This time, when you pushed into her throat, she didn't gag. She swallowed around you—a deliberate, rhythmic clenching that traveled from her throat to the base of your shaft. The sensation was electric. Your vision swam.

"That's it. That's my good little throat-whore."

She moaned. The vibration traveled through her throat and into your cock, and the pleasure was so intense that your hips bucked involuntarily. You grabbed her head with both hands—fingers tangled in her hair, thumbs pressed against her temples—and began to fuck her face in earnest.

The rhythm was brutal. Deep, driving strokes that bottomed out against the back of her throat with every thrust. The wet sounds were obscene—squelching, choking, gagging, the slap of your balls against her chin. Ga Young's bound hands clenched and unclenched behind her back. Her body swayed with the force of your thrusts. Her eyes were squeezed shut, tears streaming freely, but she never pulled away. Never tapped out. Never gave any signal that she wanted this to stop.

"You love this. You love being used like a toy. Tell me you love it."

She couldn't speak—not with your cock buried in her throat—but she moaned again. The sound was desperate. Affirmative. Broken.

"Then take it. Take every inch. I'm going to come down your throat, and you're going to swallow every drop. Do you understand?"

Another moan. Higher-pitched. Almost frantic.

You fucked her throat faster. The tension was building—a coiling pressure at the base of your spine that spread outward, downward, gathering force with every stroke. Ga Young's throat muscles were fluttering around you now, spasming in rhythm with her muffled moans. Her body was trembling. Her bound hands had gone limp behind her back, all the fight drained out of her.

"I'm close—fuck, I'm close—"

You slammed into her throat one last time and held there. Buried to the hilt. Her nose crushed against your pelvis. Her throat working desperately around your shaft, trying to swallow, trying to breathe, trying to do everything at once.

The orgasm hit you like a freight train.

The first pulse of cum shot directly down her throat—thick, hot, copious. You felt her swallow reflexively, the muscles of her esophagus contracting around your shaft. The second pulse followed immediately, and the third, and the fourth, each one painting her throat white with your seed. You kept your grip on her head, holding her in place, making sure she couldn't pull away until every last drop was drained.

"Swallow. All of it."

She did. You felt her throat constrict again and again, gulping down your cum with an eagerness that bordered on desperation. When you finally pulled back, a thick string of saliva and semen connected your cock to her bottom lip. Ga Young's mouth hung open. Her tongue was coated white. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused, staring at something only she could see.

She swallowed once more. Licked her lips. The taste of you was still on her tongue, and she savored it—closing her eyes, letting out a small, satisfied hum.

"Thank you," she whispered.

The words were hoarse. Fucked-raw. Barely audible. But the gratitude in them was real.

"We're not done."

Ga Young's eyes opened. The smirk was back—smaller now, more fragile, but still there. "I know."

You untied her wrists. The silk sash left faint red marks on her skin—nothing that would bruise, nothing that would last, but enough to remind her tomorrow of what had happened tonight. She rubbed her wrists absently. Then she looked up at you, and the question in her eyes was clear: What now?

"Against the wall."

She rose. Her legs were unsteady—the long minutes of kneeling had left her knees red, her thighs trembling. She crossed to the floor-to-ceiling window and pressed her palms against the glass. The city lights glittered below, indifferent to the scene unfolding above them. Her reflection stared back at her—naked, disheveled, marked.

"Spread your legs."

She did. The position opened her completely—the long line of her spine, the curve of her ass, the dark cleft between her cheeks. Her cunt was visible from this angle, the lips swollen and glistening. She was wet. Had been wet since the moment you'd pushed into her throat, probably. Maybe since the moment you'd walked through the door.

You stepped behind her. Your left hand found her throat—not squeezing, not yet, just resting there, a reminder of who was in control. Your right hand slid down her back, over the curve of her ass, between her cheeks. You spread her open, exposing the tight pink knot of her asshole, the darker, wetter flesh of her cunt below.

"Look at you. Moon Ga Young. The nation's sweetheart. Bent over against a hotel window with her cunt dripping and her throat full of cum. What would your fans think?"

"I don't care." Her voice was raw, almost defiant. "I don't care what they think. I don't care what anyone thinks. Just fuck me. Please. Fuck me like you mean it."

You tightened your grip on her throat. Not enough to cut off air—just enough to make her feel the pressure. Just enough to remind her that you could.

"Beg."

"Please." The word came out strangled. "Please fuck me. I've been waiting two years. Two years of empty beds and empty phone calls and pretending I'm fine when I'm dying inside. Please. I need this. I need you. I need your cock inside me. I need to feel something real. Please—"

You thrust into her cunt in one brutal motion.

Ga Young screamed.

The sound was raw and animal—nothing like the polished, controlled voice she used in interviews. This was a scream torn from somewhere deep inside her, a scream that had been building for two years and finally found its release. Her cunt was tight—tighter than you'd expected, the walls clenching around your shaft with a force that made your breath catch. She was soaked, though, and the slick heat of her made the brutal entry possible.

"Oh fuck—oh fuck—you're so deep—"

You didn't give her time to adjust. You pulled back and slammed forward again, harder than before. The impact made her palms squeak against the glass. Her breasts pressed against the window, leaving smears of sweat on the pristine surface. Your left hand stayed on her throat, your right hand gripping her hip, and you fucked her with a rhythm that was punishing.

"This is what you wanted. This is what you begged for. To be fucked like an animal. To be used like a toy. To be ruined."

"Yes—yes—harder—"

You gave her harder. The wet sounds of her cunt filled the suite—squelching, slapping, the rhythmic thud of your hips meeting her ass. You could see her reflection in the window—her mouth open, her eyes half-closed, her cheeks flushed and tear-streaked. The idol image was gone. Completely obliterated. What was left was just a woman, raw and desperate, taking cock like she'd been starving for it.

You tightened your grip on her throat. Squeezed. Not enough to cut off her air entirely, but enough to make her lightheaded. Enough to make the edges of her vision go dark. Ga Young's eyes rolled back. Her mouth opened wider. A strangled sound escaped her—half moan, half gasp.

"That's it. Feel that? Feel how deep I am? Feel how full you are? This is what you needed. Not the fame. Not the money. Not the perfect husband who never touches you. This. Just this. Just a cock in your cunt and someone who knows how to use it."

"YES—YES—THIS IS—"

You released her throat. She gasped—a huge, ragged inhale that made her whole body shudder. Then you grabbed her hips with both hands and fucked her even harder. The pace was brutal now—piston-like, relentless, each thrust driving her against the window with a force that made the glass vibrate. Her ass rippled with every impact. Her breasts bounced. Her reflection stared back at her with wild eyes and a slack mouth, and she looked at herself like she didn't recognize what she was seeing.

"Look at yourself. Look at what you've become. You're not an actress right now. You're not a wife. You're just a wet hole. A set of holes. A body that exists to be fucked. Do you see her?"

"I see her—" Ga Young's voice was broken, sobbing. "I see her—I see myself—"

"And what do you see?"

"A whore." The word came out on a sob. "A desperate, dripping whore who's been neglected for two years and finally has a cock inside her. I see a whore. I see a whore. I see—"

You felt her cunt seize around you. The orgasm was sudden and violent—a convulsive, full-body spasm that made her back arch and her legs give out. You caught her before she collapsed, pinning her against the window with your body, and kept fucking her through it. The clenching of her walls was rhythmic, almost painful in its intensity, milking your shaft from base to tip.

"That's it—that's it—come on my cock—come while you're watching yourself—"

"I'm coming—I'm coming—oh god, I'm—"

She squirted. The fluid gushed around your cock, soaking your thighs, splashing against the window, dripping down the glass in long, obscene rivulets. Ga Young's scream was wordless, primal, a sound that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than her throat. Her body convulsed in your arms. Her cunt pulsed and fluttered around your shaft, and the sensation was so intense that you felt your own orgasm building—a tightening pressure at the base of your spine.

But you weren't done.

You pulled out of her. Ga Young whimpered at the emptiness. Her cunt gaped for a moment, then clenched around nothing, gushing another pulse of fluid onto the carpet. You turned her around—roughly, hands on her shoulders, spinning her like a doll—and pushed her back against the window. Her shoulder blades hit the glass. Her eyes were wild, unfocused, still hazy from the orgasm.

"Hold onto me."

Her arms wrapped around your neck. Her legs wrapped around your waist. You gripped her thighs and lifted her, positioning her cunt above your cock, and thrust inside her in one smooth motion.

Ga Young's head fell back against the glass. "Oh ffffuuuuck—"

"You wanted to be ruined. I'm not finished ruining you."

You fucked her against the window. The position was different—deeper, somehow, the angle letting you hit spots inside her that you hadn't reached before. Ga Young's moans were continuous now, a stream of broken syllables and guttural sounds that didn't belong to any language. Her nails dug into your shoulders. Her heels pressed into the small of your back. Her cunt was a mess—slick and swollen and pulsing, still gushing intermittently with the aftershocks of her orgasm.

"Harder—please—harder—"

You slammed into her. The window rattled. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you registered that there were probably people in the building across the street, people with binoculars, people who might be watching. Let them watch. Let them see what Moon Ga Young looked like when she was being fucked properly. Let them see the nation's sweetheart with her legs wrapped around a stranger, her cunt dripping down his thighs, her mouth open in a scream that had no end.

"Look at me."

She forced her eyes to focus. They were glassy, tear-filled, but they met yours.

"You're going to come again. You're going to come on this cock while I'm choking you. And you're going to watch yourself in the reflection while you do it. Do you understand?"

"Yes—yes—"

Your left hand found her throat again. Squeezed. Harder this time. Ga Young's face began to flush. Her lips parted. Her eyes rolled back. But she didn't tap out. Didn't signal. Didn't do anything except moan—a thin, wheezing sound that vibrated against your palm.

"That's it. Let go. Let yourself fall."

You fucked her harder. The rhythm was punishing—deep, driving strokes that bottomed out against her cervix with every thrust. Your right hand found her clit, the swollen bundle of nerves slick and hard under your fingertip. You pressed down. Circled. Ga Young's body convulsed.

Her orgasm hit like an explosion.

This one was different from the first—quieter, deeper, more devastating. Her cunt clamped down on your cock with a force that almost hurt. Her whole body went rigid, every muscle locked, every breath held. Then the release came, and it came with a flood. Her cunt gushed around your shaft—not just wetness this time, but a clear, copious fluid that sprayed against your thighs and soaked the carpet beneath you.

"Fuuuuuuuck—"

Her voice broke on the word. Her body went limp. Completely limp. She collapsed against you, her head falling onto your shoulder, her arms sliding from your neck. Her cunt was still pulsing weakly around your cock—little flutters of sensation that traveled up your shaft.

You released her throat. She gasped—a huge, ragged inhale—and then she started to laugh.

It wasn't a happy laugh. It wasn't bitter, either. It was the laugh of a woman who'd been holding something inside for years and had finally, finally let it out. The laugh turned into sobs, and the sobs turned into silence, and through all of it you held her against the window, your cock still buried inside her, your hands gentle on her back.

"Thank you," she whispered again. "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you."

She kept saying it. Over and over. Like a prayer. Like a confession. Like the only words she had left.

You carried her to the bed. Laid her down on the white sheets. Her body was marked—red impressions of your fingers on her throat, faint bruises already forming on her hips, her cunt swollen and gaping and still leaking onto the mattress. She looked up at you with eyes that were clearer than they'd been all night.

"Stay," she said. "Please. Just until I fall asleep."

You climbed into the bed beside her. Pulled the sheets over both of you. Ga Young curled against your chest, her face pressed into the hollow of your throat, her breath warm on your skin.

"I haven't felt this alive in years," she murmured. "I haven't felt anything in years."

"Feel it now."

She did. Her breathing slowed. Her body relaxed. The tension that had been coiled in her muscles since the moment you'd walked through the door finally, fully released.

Outside the window, the city glittered on, indifferent and eternal. Inside the suite, Moon Ga Young closed her eyes, and for the first time in two years, she slept without dreaming of being somewhere else.

The morning light through the Signiel's floor-to-ceiling windows was the color of honey. It pooled on the white sheets, caught the edge of the champagne flute still sitting on the coffee table, painted Ga Young's bare shoulder in shades of gold.

She was still asleep.

Her breathing was slow and even, her face half-buried in the pillow, her dark hair fanned across the cotton like spilled ink. The marks from last night were already fading—the faint impressions on her throat, the bruises on her hips. In sleep, she looked younger. Softer. The sharp, sardonic edge that had defined her when you'd walked through the door had melted away, replaced by something unguarded.

You slid out of bed carefully. The sheets whispered against your skin. Ga Young stirred but didn't wake—just shifted, her hand reaching out to the empty space where you'd been, her fingers curling around nothing.

You dressed in silence. Shirt. Pants. Belt. The routine was automatic, muscle memory from a dozen similar mornings. The suite was quiet except for the distant hum of the HVAC system and the soft shush of traffic eighty floors below. Your shoes were by the sofa where you'd kicked them off. You bent to pick them up.

"Where are you going?"

The voice was sleep-roughened but still unmistakably hers—that smoky, noir-film cadence that made everything sound like a secret. You turned.

Ga Young was sitting up in bed. The sheet had fallen to her waist. Her hair was a tangled mess, her eyes still puffy from sleep and last night's tears. She looked nothing like the polished actress from the dramas. She looked like a woman who'd been thoroughly fucked and had slept better than she had in years.

"Home," you said. "You were asleep. I didn't want to wake you."

She laughed. The sound was low and warm and entirely unselfconscious. "Nuh uh." She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, crossing the room toward you with the sheet still trailing behind her like a train. "I'm still your client. The weekend, remember? You're not going anywhere."

She reached you and wrapped her arms around your waist from behind. Her cheek pressed against your spine. Her bare breasts flattened against your back, and the warmth of her body seeped through your shirt. She smelled like sex and sleep and the faint floral remnants of whatever expensive soap the Signiel stocked in its bathrooms.

"Ga Young—"

"Shh." Her arms tightened. "You're not leaving. Not yet. Not until I say so."

The suite door clicked open.

You heard it before you saw it—the soft sound of the electronic lock disengaging, followed by the whoosh of the door swinging on its hinges. Two voices drifted in from the hallway, mid-laugh, the kind of easy, familiar laughter that came from years of friendship.

"—and then he said, 'That's not a prop, that's my actual—'" The voice cut off.

Karina stood in the doorway.

Wonyoung was right behind her.

They were both carrying shopping bags—the discreet, expensive kind that came from boutiques in Cheongdam-dong, the logos embossed in subtle gold foil. They were both wearing black outerwear—Karina in a long trench coat, Wonyoung in a cropped leather jacket—and they were both staring at you with expressions that shifted from surprise to recognition to something else entirely.

Something hungrier.

"Unnie!" Ga Young's voice was delighted. She released you and stepped around, completely unbothered by her nudity, the sheet slipping from her shoulders and pooling on the floor. "You're early. I thought you weren't coming until noon."

Karina's eyes flicked from you to Ga Young and back again. A slow smile spread across her face. "We wanted to surprise you." She stepped into the suite, and Wonyoung followed, closing the door behind her. "But it looks like you're the one with the surprise."

"Wait." You looked at Ga Young. Then at Karina. Then at Wonyoung. "You three know each other?"

"We're best friends." Wonyoung's voice was light, almost teasing. She set her shopping bag down on the console table by the door. "We've been best friends for years. Since trainee days. Did you really think it was a coincidence that we all ended up calling the same agency?"

"We talk," Karina said. She was still smiling, but there was something sharper beneath it—a blade hidden in silk. "We talk about everything. The husbands. The loneliness. The emptiness." She paused. "The men we hire to make us feel alive again."

Ga Young had retrieved her robe from the floor—the champagne-colored silk, still wrinkled from last night—and was tying it loosely around her waist. "When I heard that Karina unnie had found someone who actually made her come, I had to see for myself. And then Wonyoungie called me the next morning, practically glowing, and I knew." She turned to you, her eyes bright. "I knew I had to book you. And I knew I had to make it a weekend."

"A weekend?"

"Senior Park didn't tell you?" Karina's trench coat was already unbelted. She shrugged it off her shoulders, and it slid to the floor in a whisper of black fabric. Beneath it, she was wearing lingerie—not the practical black lace from your first encounter, but something deliberately chosen. A deep burgundy set, the color of aged wine, the bra cupping her breasts in a way that made them look fuller, the panties high-cut and sheer. "This booking is for all three of us. The whole weekend. Friday to Sunday."

Wonyoung was unzipping her leather jacket. Her movements were slower than Karina's, more deliberate, but no less confident. The jacket came off, and beneath it was a pale lavender set—the color soft against her skin, the fabric delicate, almost bridal. The contrast between the innocent lingerie and the knowing look in her eyes was intentional. You could see it in the way she tilted her head, the way she watched you watching her.

"Three clients," she said. "Three women who need to be reminded what it feels like to be touched." She stepped closer. "Three women who've been talking about you for weeks."

On the coffee table, you noticed for the first time a folded piece of paper. It was propped against the champagne bottle, your name written on the front in Senior Park's precise, old-fashioned handwriting. You crossed to it and picked it up.

Your client for this weekend is the three of them. They've been planning this for a month. Don't disappoint them. — SP

You swallowed.

The sound was audible in the quiet suite. Ga Young heard it and laughed—that same low, warm laugh from before. "Nervous? The man who made me come twice against a window is nervous?"

"Not nervous." You folded the note and tucked it into your pocket. "Just… recalibrating."

"Recalibrate faster." Karina had crossed the room to stand beside Ga Young. The two of them together were a study in contrasts—Karina's burgundy against Ga Young's champagne, the idol's sharp, aggressive beauty against the actress's delicate, knowing allure. "We've been waiting a long time for this. All three of us. We've been planning it ever since Wonyoungie called me the morning after your session."

"I didn't just call her." Wonyoung had moved to your other side, bracketing you between the three of them. Her lavender lingerie made her skin look luminous, the pale tea-colored nipples visible through the sheer fabric. "I told her everything. Everything you did. Everything you said. Every way you made me feel." Her voice dropped, became something softer, more intimate. "And she told me what you did with her. And then Ga Young unnie said she wanted to find out for herself, and we decided—why not all three of us? Why not a weekend?"

"Because none of us has ever had this." Ga Young's hand found your shoulder. Her fingers traced the line of your collarbone through your shirt. "None of us has ever had a man who knew what he was doing. Who cared about making us feel good. Who looked at us like we were women instead of objects." She paused. "We wanted to share you. Just for a weekend. Just to remember what it feels like."

"To be alive," Karina said.

"To be wanted," Wonyoung added.

"To be fucked properly," Ga Young finished.

The three of them were close now. Close enough that you could smell them—Karina's perfume, something floral and expensive; Wonyoung's shampoo, jasmine and vanilla; Ga Young's skin, still warm from sleep, still carrying the faint musk of last night's sex. They were looking at you with the same expression. The same hunger. The same desperate, aching need that you'd seen in each of them individually but never all at once.

"Take off your shirt," Karina said.

The command was soft but firm. The same voice she'd used when she'd first welcomed you to her mansion, but stripped of the nervousness now. This was a woman who'd spent three weeks waiting for this moment. This was a woman who knew exactly what she wanted.

You unbuttoned your shirt. Slowly. Deliberately. The three of them watched every movement—the slide of each button through its hole, the parting of the fabric, the reveal of your chest. When you shrugged the shirt off your shoulders, Wonyoung made a small sound—a quiet, involuntary hum of appreciation.

"His body is different in the daylight," she murmured. "I couldn't see it properly last time. It was dark. I was…" She swallowed. "I was distracted."

"You were crying," Ga Young said. Not unkindly. Just matter-of-fact. "You told me you cried."

"I did. I cried a lot." Wonyoung's eyes met yours. "But I also came. Twice. The first real orgasms of my life."

"Mine too." Karina's voice was quieter now. "The first real ones. The only real ones."

Ga Young's hand slid from your shoulder to your chest. Her palm was warm against your skin. "And I came twice last night. The first time I've ever come with a partner. The first time I've ever come without faking it." Her fingers traced the line of your pectoral, down to your abdomen. "So you see, we have a lot to thank you for. And a lot more we want to experience."

"Together," Karina said.

"Together," Wonyoung echoed.

The word hung in the air between you. Together. Three women who'd spent years being neglected, being ignored, being treated like accessories to their husbands' careers. Three women who'd found each other in the loneliness and decided to do something about it. Three women who were looking at you now with the same expression—expectant, hungry, alive.

"Are you going to be able to handle all three of us?" Ga Young's voice was teasing, but there was a genuine question beneath the playfulness. "We're not going to be gentle with you. We've been planning this for a month. We have… ideas."

"Three days," Karina said. "Three women. One man." She stepped closer, close enough that her breasts—still encased in that burgundy lace—brushed against your arm. "Think you can keep up?"

"Senior Park seemed to think so." You looked at the note still folded in your pocket. "He wouldn't have booked me if he didn't."

"Senior Park is a smart man." Wonyoung had moved behind you. Her hands found your shoulders, her fingers pressing into the muscle, kneading gently. "He told us you were the best. He told us you could handle anything. He told us you wouldn't break."

"I won't break."

"Good." Ga Young's hand was still on your chest, her thumb tracing idle circles over your sternum. "Because we're not going to break you. We're going to use you. All three of us. However we want. Whenever we want. For the whole weekend." She looked up at you, and her eyes were dark and serious despite the smile playing at the corner of her lips. "Is that understood?"

"Understood."

"Good boy." She patted your chest and stepped back. "Then let's get started. The bedroom's big enough for all four of us. I checked."

She turned and walked toward the bedroom, the champagne robe trailing behind her like a whisper. Karina followed, her hips swaying with that dancer's grace she'd never lost despite years away from the stage. Wonyoung released your shoulders and moved around you, her lavender lingerie pale against the gray walls of the suite, and when she reached the bedroom doorway, she looked back over her shoulder.

"Are you coming?"

The question was simple. The answer was simpler.

You followed them into the bedroom.

The bed was still rumpled from the night before—the sheets twisted, the pillows scattered, the faint impressions of Ga Young's body still visible on the mattress. The morning light was stronger here, flooding through the windows, making everything look clean and bright and new. The three women arranged themselves on the bed with the ease of long practice—Ga Young in the center, propped against the headboard; Karina on her left, sitting cross-legged with her burgundy lingerie stark against the white sheets; Wonyoung on her right, her long legs stretched out in front of her, her lavender set a soft contrast to the sharper colors around her.

They looked at you. Waiting.

"Clothes off," Ga Young said. "All of them. We want to see what we're working with."

You unbuckled your belt. The sound was loud in the quiet room. Three pairs of eyes tracked the movement of your hands—the slide of leather through the buckle, the pop of the button, the hiss of the zipper. Your pants fell to the floor. Your boxers followed.

Your cock was already half-hard. Responding to the attention, the anticipation, the sheer overwhelming presence of three beautiful women watching you undress. Ga Young's eyes flicked down, then up again. The corner of her mouth twitched.

"He's bigger than I remembered," Karina murmured.

"He's thicker than I remembered," Wonyoung added.

"And he knows how to use it." Ga Young's voice was satisfied. "He used it in my throat last night. And in my cunt. And against the window." She gestured at the glass, still faintly smeared from where her body had pressed against it. "I left a mark."

"So did I." Wonyoung's voice was soft, almost wistful. "At my penthouse. On the sheets. I haven't washed them yet. I keep thinking I should, but I can't bring myself to do it."

"I know what you mean." Karina's eyes met yours. "I still have the sheets from my first time with him. They're in the back of my closet. Joon-ho never goes in there. He never goes anywhere in that house except his study and his bedroom." She paused. "He has his own bedroom. We've always had separate bedrooms. He said it was better for his sleep."

"Seok-joong has his own apartment." Wonyoung's voice was flat. "He lives there with his current girlfriend. A trainee. She's nineteen."

"My husband has his own continent." Ga Young's laugh was bitter. "He's been to Seoul for six weeks in two years. Six weeks. He's probably slept with half of Manhattan in that time."

The three of them were quiet for a moment. The morning light poured through the windows, and the city glittered below, and the three women on the bed were looking at each other with an expression that was part grief and part fury and part something else—something that looked almost like hope.

Then Ga Young shook her head. "No. No more talking about husbands. That's not what this weekend is for." She looked at you, and the fire was back in her eyes. "This weekend is for us. For pleasure. For release. For everything we've been denied." She patted the mattress beside her. "Come here. It's time to earn your paycheck."

You climbed onto the bed.

The mattress dipped beneath your weight. The three women shifted to accommodate you—Ga Young making room in the center, Karina and Wonyoung flanking her on either side. You ended up face-to-face with Ga Young, close enough to see the faint lines around her eyes, the small scar on her chin from some childhood accident, the way her pupils were already dilating with anticipation.

"Kiss me," she said. "Kiss me, and then kiss them. We've been waiting. We've all been waiting."

You kissed her.

It was different from last night's kisses. Last night had been about dominance—the rough press of lips, the battle for control, the assertion of power. This kiss was slower. More deliberate. A kiss of greeting rather than conquest. Ga Young's lips parted beneath yours, and her tongue met yours with a soft, exploratory touch. She tasted like sleep and champagne and something indefinably her.

When you pulled back, she was smiling. "Now Karina."

You turned. Karina was watching you with dark eyes, her burgundy lingerie stretched tight across her breasts, her breathing already uneven. She didn't wait for you to lean in. She closed the distance herself, her hands coming up to frame your face, her kiss hungry and urgent and full of three weeks of waiting.

"It's been too long," she whispered against your mouth. "Three weeks. Three weeks of thinking about you. Three weeks of touching myself and pretending it was your hands."

"And now?"

"Now I don't have to pretend." She kissed you again—quick and fierce—then pulled back. "Wonyoung's turn."

Wonyoung was the shyest of the three. She'd been hesitant last night, tentative in the penthouse, uncertain about what she was allowed to do. But now she leaned in with more confidence, her lips brushing yours with a gentleness that was almost teasing. Her hand found your chest, her palm flat against your sternum, feeling your heartbeat.

"I've been thinking about you too," she murmured. "Every night. Every morning. I've been thinking about what you did to me. What you made me feel." She kissed you again—longer this time, deeper. "I want to feel it again. All of it. Everything."

"You will."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

She smiled. The expression transformed her face—made her look younger, lighter, more like the idol she'd been before the marriage and the neglect and the loneliness. "Good. Then let's get started. Ga Young unnie's been waiting the longest. She should get the first turn."

"Agreed." Karina was already shifting on the bed, repositioning herself to give Ga Young more room. "We've got three days. We can take our time."

You glanced back at the box. Inside, resting on faded velvet, sat a tangle of red wire twisted into an abstract shape. It looked like something a child might make in art class. Cheap. Nonsense.

"How much?"

"For you? Five dollars. It wants to go home with you."

Right. Sure it did. You pulled out a crumpled five-dollar bill anyway, partly to end the conversation and partly because something about the wire's chaotic loops kept drawing your eye. The transaction took seconds. The shopkeeper pressed the box into your hand with fingers that felt surprisingly warm and dry.

"Twist it clockwise," she instructed. "Speak your wish. Let go."

"Uh-huh." You pocketed the box without looking at her again.

Outside, the afternoon sun felt too bright after the shop's dim interior. You squinted against it, checking your phone. Still forty minutes until your next class. Enough time to grab coffee, maybe find a quiet spot in the library.

Enough time to be alone with your thoughts.

Which was never a good thing, lately.

The harassment had started your first semester. You'd transferred in mid-year, a scholarship student who didn't know anyone, and Yuna had spotted you like a hawk spots a rabbit in an open field.

She was beautiful, you'd give her that. Tall and elegant with dark hair that fell past her shoulders in a sleek sheet, her eyes slightly narrowed in perpetual judgment. She moved like someone who knew exactly how much space she deserved to occupy. Her friend Kazuha was shorter, round-faced and deceptively sweet-looking, with a dancer's compact body and a smile that fooled people until she opened her mouth. And Winter—Minjeong, though everyone called her Winter—completed their trio with her pale coloring and sharp tongue, her slim figure always dressed in the latest trends.

They'd made your life miserable for two semesters now.

Little things, mostly. At first. Knocking your books off tables in the cafeteria. "Accidentally" spilling drinks on your notes. Whispering comments just loud enough for you to hear as you passed.

Then it had escalated.

Yuna had found out where you lived—somehow—and started leaving notes in your mailbox. Not threats, exactly. Just observations. Saw you at the coffee shop today. You looked pathetic. That blue shirt makes you look like a corpse. Why do you even bother coming to campus?

Kazuha had hacked your social media accounts, or at least figured out your passwords. She'd post embarrassing things and then delete them before you could prove anything. Comments on other people's posts that made you sound desperate, creepy, lonely. Which you were, but that wasn't the point.

Winter was the worst, though. She liked to get in your face. Literally. Cornering you between classes, pressing close enough that you could smell her expensive perfume, her voice dropping to a whisper as she dissected every flaw she perceived. Your posture. Your clothes. The way you talked. The way you didn't talk, which was apparently worse.

"Everyone pretends to like you," she'd told you just last week, her lips close enough to brush your ear. "But nobody actually does. We're all just waiting for you to disappear."

You'd gone home that night and stared at the ceiling for three hours.

Depression had become a familiar weight. Not the dramatic kind they showed in movies, where people couldn't get out of bed or stopped eating entirely. More like a constant low-level fog that made everything feel like wading through waist-deep water. You went to class. You studied. You existed.

But you couldn't remember the last time you'd felt something resembling joy.

The library was mostly empty when you found a table in the back corner. You pulled out the wooden box, turning it over in your hands.

The Wishing Wire.

What a stupid name. What a stupid thing.

You opened the lid. The red wire gleamed under the fluorescent lights, its twists and loops forming no recognizable pattern. Just chaos, frozen in copper and coating.

"Twist it clockwise," the shopkeeper had said.

You did. The wire was warm from your pocket, and it turned more smoothly than you expected, the loops shifting under your fingers like they wanted to be rearranged.

"Speak your wish."

"This is ridiculous," you said aloud, to the empty library. "This is just a toy."

But your hands kept twisting, and your mouth kept moving.

"I wish they'd stop." You swallowed. "I wish Yuna and Kazuha and Winter would just leave me alone. Stop the bullying. Stop the comments. Stop the notes and the looks and the whispers."

The wire shifted under your fingers.

"And if this actually works, which it doesn't…" You laughed, the sound hollow in your throat. "Make them fall for me instead. Make them obsessed with me the way they're obsessed with making my life hell."

You let go of the wire.

Nothing happened.

"Right," you said, closing the box. "Because it's just a toy."

You shoved it back in your pocket and opened your textbook, but the words swam in front of your eyes. After ten minutes, you gave up and headed to class, the wire heavy in your jacket like a secret.

That night, you dreamed.

Not of the bullies, for once. Not of the endless parade of small humiliations that usually populated your sleeping hours.

Instead, you dreamed of red wire, twisting and untwisting in an infinite loop. It wrapped around your wrists, your ankles, your throat—not choking, just present. When you opened your mouth in the dream, words came out that you hadn't chosen.

I wish. I wish. I wish.

You woke with a gasp, your alarm blaring, the wooden box somehow clutched in your hand even though you didn't remember taking it out of your jacket.

Morning came too fast.

You showered, dressed, ate breakfast without tasting it. The routine was automatic. Wake up. Survive. Repeat.

Campus was busy when you arrived, students crisscrossing the quad in the anxious shuffle of midterms season. You kept your head down, navigating toward the arts building where your first class waited.

Halfway there, you saw them.

Yuna stood by the fountain, her dark hair catching the morning light. Kazuha perched on the low wall beside her, legs crossed, face bright with laughter at something Winter had said. Winter herself stood with her arms crossed, her pale hair pulled back, her expression sharp even in profile.

Your stomach clenched.

This was the part where you'd normally turn around, find another route, accept the extra five minutes of walking to avoid their notice. But today, for reasons you couldn't explain, your feet kept moving forward.

They hadn't seen you yet. Yuna's gaze was fixed on something across the quad. Kazuha was examining her nails. Winter was—

Winter was looking right at you.

Her eyes widened.

Your whole body tensed, bracing for the cutting remark, the mocking smile, the signal to her friends that fresh prey had arrived.

But Winter's face did something strange.

Her sharp expression softened. Her lips parted. A flush crept up her neck, visible even from this distance, and she actually swayed on her feet like she'd momentarily forgotten how to stand.

"Guys," she said. You heard it from twenty feet away. Her voice was wrong somehow—breathless, shaky, nothing like the ice-edged tone she usually wielded. "Guys, look."

Yuna and Kazuha turned.

And their reaction was even stranger.

Yuna's perfect composure cracked. Her hand flew to her chest like she'd been struck, and her eyes went so wide you could see the whites all the way around the iris. Kazuha literally hopped off the wall, her dancer's grace momentarily abandoned, her sweet face transforming into something you couldn't read.

Then they were moving.

All three of them, walking fast, then jogging, then practically sprinting across the quad toward you.

People stared. You stared. Your feet were rooted to the pavement, your brain churning through possible explanations for what was happening. This was a prank, had to be. Some new form of public humiliation you hadn't experienced yet. They'd get close, then laugh, then reveal the joke, and you'd have to find a way to keep breathing through the shame.

Yuna reached you first.

She didn't insult you.

She threw her arms around your neck and buried her face against your chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"I found you," she breathed against your shirt. "Oh my god, I found you."

Kazuha slammed into you from the left, her arms wrapping around your waist, her cheek pressing into your shoulder blade. She was shorter than you'd realized, or maybe she was slouching, making herself small against your body.

"We've been looking for you everywhere," Kazuha said, her voice thick. "Every single day. We didn't know your face but we knew you were out there somewhere and we couldn't find you and it was killing us."

Winter completed the triangle, pressing in from the right, her slim body flush against your side. Her hand found yours and squeezed so hard your bones ground together.

"Don't let go," she whispered. "Please, please don't make us let go."

You stood frozen in the middle of campus, three women clinging to you like you were the last lifeboat on a sinking ship, and absolutely no idea what was happening.

The quad had gone quiet. Students had stopped walking. Professors had paused mid-conversation. Everyone was staring at the spectacle of the campus's most feared trio wrapped around the nobody they'd spent two semesters tormenting.

"Um," you managed.

Yuna pulled back just enough to look at your face. Her eyes were wet. Actual tears, tracking down her perfect cheeks, ruining her perfect makeup.

"There you are," she said, and smiled so brightly it hurt to look at. "I love you. I love you so much it feels like dying. I've loved you since the moment the world changed and I didn't even know your name yet but I knew I'd die without you."

"What," you said.

Kazuha laughed against your shoulder, the sound trembling and strange. "She's being dramatic, but she's not wrong. We all feel it. This pull. This need. We tried to fight it yesterday but it just got stronger and stronger until we couldn't think about anything except finding you."

Winter hadn't moved. Her grip on your hand hadn't loosened. When she spoke, her voice was barely audible.

"We were so horrible to you. I know we were. I remember every single thing we did and said and I want to carve out my own tongue for the words that came out of it." She finally looked up, and her pale eyes were red-rimmed, desperate, completely alien on her usually composed face. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please let us be better. Please give us a chance to worship you the way you deserve."

Your brain was short-circuiting. The Wishing Wire. The stupid, impossible, ridiculous wish you'd made as a joke in an empty library.

No. No way. That wasn't real. Magic wasn't real.

But Yuna's tears were wetting your shirt. Kazuha's heartbeat was thudding against your back. Winter's hand was trembling in yours.

Something had changed.

And you had absolutely no idea what you were going to do about it.

The library had been your refuge for two semesters. A place to hide between classes, to breathe without looking over your shoulder, to exist in the marginal spaces where Yuna and Kazuha and Winter rarely bothered to venture.

Now it was a trap.

They'd followed you. Of course they had. The moment you'd tried to extract yourself from their tangled embrace on the quad, stammering something about needing to study, Yuna had seized your wrist with a grip that brooked no argument.

"We'll help you study," she'd said, and something in her dark eyes had glittered with an intensity that made your stomach flip.

Kazuha had nodded eagerly, bouncing on her heels. "We can be very quiet. We promise. Right, Winter?"

Winter hadn't promised anything. She'd simply moved close enough that her shoulder brushed yours, her pale gaze fixed on your face like you were the only thing worth seeing in the entire world.

So now you sat at your usual table in the back corner, three former bullies arranged around you like beautiful, terrifying bookends, and you had absolutely no idea how this had become your life.

"Just breathe," you muttered to yourself.

Yuna heard. Her head tilted, dark hair sliding over her shoulder. "Are you not breathing? Do you need us to help you breathe? We could—"

"No," you said quickly. "No, I'm fine. Just. This is weird."

"It's perfect," Kazuha corrected. She'd pulled her chair so close that her knee pressed against your thigh under the table, and every few minutes she'd shift in a way that made the contact electric. "This is exactly where we're supposed to be. I can feel it. Like the whole universe finally clicked into place."

Winter hadn't spoken since they'd cornered you against the bookshelves. She'd just watched, her pale coloring almost ghostly in the library's fluorescent lighting, her sharp tongue apparently stunned into silence by whatever force had rewritten reality overnight.

Your phone buzzed. You glanced down.

Unknown number: We can see you.

Your head snapped up. All three women were staring at you.

"My number's in your phone now," Yuna said calmly. "And Kazuha's. And Winter's. We put them in while you were sleeping last night. We had someone watching your apartment to make sure you were safe."

"You what."

"We needed to be able to reach you," Kazuha said, like this was perfectly reasonable. "What if something happened to you? What if you got hurt or sick or sad and we weren't there to fix it? We couldn't let that happen."

Your chest felt tight. "That's. That's called stalking."

"It's called devotion," Yuna corrected. She reached across the table and took your hand, her fingers lacing through yours with a possessiveness that made your pulse jump. "There's a difference."

Was there? You weren't sure anymore.

Winter finally moved. She rose from her chair without a word and walked to the end of the stacks, disappearing around the corner. You watched her go, torn between relief and a strange, nagging worry.

"Where's she going?"

Kazuha shrugged. "She does that. Wanders off sometimes when she's feeling too much. Winter's not good with feelings. She prefers to hide behind being cruel." A pause. "She's sorry about that, you know. About all of it. We all are. We just don't know how to say it properly yet."

Yuna's thumb traced circles on the back of your hand. The sensation was distracting, warm, sending little sparks up your arm. "Let us show you instead. Let us prove we can be different."

Before you could ask what she meant, Winter returned.

She was carrying something. A book—one of the ones you'd been assigned for your literature class, a thick hardcover that you'd been dreading reading all semester.

She set it on the table and opened it to a marked page.

"I read it," she said quietly. "Last night. After we found you. I read the whole thing so I could talk to you about it. So I could understand something that matters to you."

You stared at the book. Then at her.

"You read four hundred pages in one night?"

"I couldn't sleep." Winter's pale eyes met yours, and there was something raw there, something stripped of all her usual sharp edges. "Every time I closed my eyes, I saw your face. I kept thinking about how many hours I'd wasted making you feel small when I could have been learning how to make you feel seen instead."

Your throat felt thick. This was impossible. All of it. But Winter was standing in front of you with dark circles under her eyes and a desperately earnest expression, and Yuna's hand was warm in yours, and Kazuha was pressing closer against your side, and—

"We're sorry," Kazuha said. She took your other hand, the one Yuna wasn't holding, and pressed it to her chest so you could feel her heartbeat. It was racing. "We're so sorry. We were horrible. We were monsters. And we know we can't undo what we did, but please. Please let us try to be better."

Yuna stood. She moved around the table with a fluid grace that reminded you why everyone on campus was half-terrified of her, half-entranced. She stopped directly in front of you, close enough that her dark hair fell forward and brushed your shoulders.

"I need to show you something," she said. "May I?"

You nodded, because what else could you do?

She leaned in and pressed her lips to your forehead.

The kiss was soft, lingering, warm. Her lips stayed against your skin for a long moment, and you could feel her breathing, feel the slight tremble in her frame that suggested she was holding back something much more intense.

"Thank you for existing," she whispered against your skin. "Thank you for letting us find you."

Then she pulled back, and her eyes were wet again, and you realized you'd never seen Yuna cry before today. Hadn't thought she was capable of it.

Your resistance cracked.

"Okay," you said. "Okay. I don't understand this. I don't understand any of this. But okay."

Kazuha made a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob, and threw her arms around your neck from the side. Yuna bent and kissed your cheek, then your jaw, then the spot just below your ear that made your breath catch.

Winter watched with those pale, hungry eyes. But she didn't move to join. Instead, she stepped back, giving the three of you space, and you realized with a start that she was waiting for permission.

"Winter," you said. Her name felt strange in your mouth. "Come here."

She did. Instantly. She crossed the small distance between you and dropped to her knees beside your chair, her head bowing forward until her forehead rested against your thigh.

"Thank you," she breathed. "Thank you thank you thank you."

You weren't sure what she was thanking you for. But her breath was warm through your jeans, and her shoulders were shaking, and you found your hand moving to stroke her pale hair without conscious thought.

The library was silent around you. Empty shelves looming, dust motes floating in stale air. A hidden corner of the world where nothing made sense and everything had changed.

"We should go somewhere else," Yuna said eventually. Her voice had gone low, husky. "Somewhere private. Where we can properly apologize."

You swallowed. "Apologize how?"

Kazuha giggled. The sound was different from her usual mocking laughter—sweeter, more genuine, with an edge of nervousness that you'd never heard from her before.

"We have ideas," she said. "So many ideas. We've been planning since yesterday. Since the moment we realized what you mean to us."

"Which is everything," Winter added against your leg. "You mean everything. We'd do anything for you. Anything at all."

All parties involved in this narrative are adults acting freely, consensually, and with mutual enjoyment.

Yuna's apartment was nicer than anywhere you'd ever lived. Top floor of a building you couldn't have afforded to enter, let alone rent. Dark wood floors and white walls and windows that looked out over the city skyline.

You barely had time to take any of it in.

The moment the door closed behind you, all three women were on you. Not attacking—never attacking, not anymore—but surrounding, pressing close, hands and lips and warm breath.

"Let us," Yuna murmured against your throat. "Please. Let us show you."

You nodded. You'd been nodding a lot today.

They walked you backward through the apartment, six hands guiding you, until your legs hit the edge of a large bed. You sat down hard, suddenly grateful for the surface, and they stood over you in a loose semicircle.

"We talked about this," Kazuha said. She was already pulling her shirt over her head, revealing a simple black bralette underneath. Her body was compact and athletic, all smooth lines and dancer's muscles, and she caught you looking and smiled. "We're going to take turns apologizing. Properly. The way you deserve."

Winter moved first. She stepped forward and bent to kiss you—really kiss you, not the chaste presses from earlier. Her lips parted against yours, her tongue seeking entrance, and you opened for her with a groan you couldn't hold back.

She tasted like coffee. Like desperation. Like something sweet hiding underneath all that sharp exterior.

When she pulled back, her lipstick was smeared. So was your mouth. You could feel the waxy residue on your lips, the evidence of her painted against your skin.

"Next," she whispered, and stepped aside.

Kazuha didn't kiss your mouth. She knelt in front of you and pressed her lips to your stomach, pushing your shirt up to reach bare skin. Her mouth was hot, trailing a line from your navel upward, and each kiss came with words pressed into your flesh.

"Sorry." Kiss. "For the notes." Kiss. "Sorry." Kiss. "For the comments." Kiss. "Sorry for every single time I made you feel like nothing."

Her hands slid around to your back, holding you in place while she worshipped your torso with her mouth. Every apology was a brand, a promise, a prayer.

Yuna watched with those dark, hungry eyes. She'd removed her own shirt at some point, revealing a lacy bra that made your mouth go dry. Her breasts were full and perfect, practically spilling over the cups, and she caught you staring and smiled.

"Like what you see?"

"Yes."

The word came out without thought. Honest. Raw.

Her smile widened. "Good. I want you to like it. I want you to like everything about us. I want to make you feel so good you forget we were ever cruel."

She moved to the bed and climbed onto it, positioning herself beside you. Her hand found yours and guided it to her chest, pressing your palm against the lace-covered swell of her breast.

She was warm. Soft. Her heartbeat thudded against your palm, rapid and strong.

"Squeeze," she said. "Please. I need to feel your hands on me."

You obeyed. Her breath caught, her back arching, and a soft moan escaped her lips.

"Ohhh, that's. Yes. Just like that."

Her nipple hardened under the lace, pressing against your fingers. You rubbed your thumb over it experimentally, and her moan grew louder.

"Harder. Please. I can take it."

You pinched. Her whole body shuddered.

"Fuck. Fuck, your hands feel so good. I've imagined this since yesterday. Since the moment I saw you. I've been going crazy wanting your touch."

Kazuha had worked her way up to your chest now, her mouth leaving damp trails across your skin. Winter had rejoined the group, her pale fingers working at the buttons of your shirt, helping Kazuha push the fabric aside.

And then all three of them were touching you. Six hands on your bare skin, mapping every inch they could reach.

"This body," Kazuha breathed. "We tormented this beautiful body. We should be punished for that."

"Later," Yuna said, her voice ragged as you continued to knead her breast. "Punishment later. Worship now."

Winter leaned in and kissed your neck, her tongue tracing the line of your pulse. Her hands slid down your sides, hooking into the waistband of your jeans but not going further. Not yet.

"Tell us what you want," she whispered against your throat. "Anything. We'll give you anything."

"I don't. I don't know."

It was true. Your brain was short-circuiting, overwhelmed by sensation and confusion and the impossible reality of three women who'd spent months making your life hell now dedicating themselves to your pleasure.

"Then we'll figure it out," Yuna said. She pulled your hand from her chest and pressed it to her lips, kissing each of your fingers. "We have time. We have forever, if you'll let us."

Kazuha looked up from where she'd been pressing kisses to your ribs. Her round face was flushed, her eyes bright.

"Stay the night. All three of us. Let us spend hours making you feel good. Let us apologize until our mouths are sore."

Your breath caught at the image. Hours. Three women. All focused on you.

"I shouldn't."

"Shouldn't doesn't mean don't want to," Winter murmured. "We can see it in your face. You want this. You want us."

She wasn't wrong.

"Then stay," Yuna said. She leaned in and kissed you, deep and hungry, her tongue sliding against yours. When she pulled back, she was panting. "Stay and let us prove we can be what you need."

The room was warm, filled with the scent of three different perfumes mingling together, and you realized with a jolt that you were lying on Yuna's bed with three women pressed against you, and your shirt was somewhere on the floor, and Winter's hands were still hooked in your waistband, and—

"Wait."

They froze. All three of them, instantly, like you'd hit a switch.

"Too fast?" Yuna asked. Her voice was careful, controlled, with an undercurrent of desperation that suggested stopping was physically painful for her.

"A little."

Winter's hands withdrew from your waistband. Kazuha sat back on her heels, her chest rising and falling with quick breaths. Her black bralette was askew, one strap slipping down her shoulder, and her round face was flushed pink. She looked like she'd been running.

Maybe she had been. Running toward something she couldn't name until yesterday.

"We don't have to do anything you don't want," she said. Her voice was softer than you'd ever heard it. Gone was the mocking edge, the cruel giggle that had haunted your nightmares for months. "We just want to be close to you. However you'll let us."

Winter had pulled away too, kneeling beside the bed with her hands in her lap. Her pale hair fell forward, hiding her expression, but you could see the tension in her shoulders. The effort it took her to stay still.

Yuna was another story. She hadn't moved from her position beside you on the bed. Her dark eyes stayed fixed on your face, cataloging every micro-expression, every flicker of uncertainty. Reading you like a book she'd memorized.

"I can feel your pulse," she murmured. Her fingers were still wrapped around your wrist from when she'd kissed them earlier. "It's racing. You're scared."

"Yes."

"Of us?"

You considered the question. Really considered it, instead of just reacting.

"I don't know," you admitted. "Maybe. It's all happening so fast."

Yuna nodded slowly. "We can slow down. We will slow down. But I need you to understand something first." She lifted your wrist to her lips again and pressed a kiss against the thin skin over your veins. "This isn't a trick. This isn't some elaborate game we're playing to hurt you later. This is real. Whatever happened yesterday, whatever changed inside us—it's permanent. We're not going to wake up tomorrow and go back to the way things were."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because I can't imagine it." Her dark eyes held yours. "I can't imagine ever wanting to hurt you again. The very thought makes me feel sick. Like something's clawing at my insides, trying to get out. I've spent the last eighteen hours wanting to crawl out of my own skin every time I remembered something cruel I said to you. Every insult. Every laugh at your expense." Her voice cracked slightly. "I don't know how to make you believe me. But I'll spend the rest of my life trying if you let me."

The room was quiet for a long moment. Outside, you could hear traffic. The distant sound of a siren. Normal city noises that felt surreal after everything that had happened today.

"Okay," you said again. It seemed to be the only word you could manage.

Winter lifted her head. Her pale eyes were bright with unshed tears. "Does that mean… you forgive us?"

Did it? You weren't sure forgiveness worked that way—instant and complete, granted in a borrowed apartment by a man who'd been ready to drop out of school just two days ago. But something had shifted in your chest. A wall you'd built brick by brick over months of torment, crumbling under the weight of three women who looked at you like you were the sun and they were drowning without your light.

"I don't know about forgiveness," you said carefully. "But I believe you. I think I believe that you've changed. And I want…" You swallowed. "I want to see where this goes."

Kazuha let out a shaky breath. Her hand found yours and squeezed. "That's enough. That's more than enough. We'll earn the rest. I promise."

All parties involved in this narrative are adults acting freely, consensually, and with mutual enjoyment.

Winter shifted on her knees, moving closer to the bed. Her pale coloring looked almost ethereal in the soft light of Yuna's bedroom, and her sharp features had lost their usual hard edge. She looked vulnerable in a way you'd never seen before.

"Can I show you something?" she asked. "Something I've wanted to do since yesterday?"

You nodded.

She reached for your hand and placed it on her chest, right over her heart. You could feel it pounding beneath your palm—rapid, desperate, like a bird trapped in a cage.

"This is what you do to me," she whispered. "Every time I look at you. Every time you speak. I feel like I can't breathe. Like my heart might explode." She covered your hand with hers, pressing it harder against her chest. "I spent so long trying to make you feel small because I was terrified of how big you made me feel. And now I just want…"

"What?"

"To be small for you." Her voice dropped even lower. "To let you have all the power. To give you everything I have and take whatever you want to give back."

The confession hung in the air between you. Raw. Honest. Stripped of all her usual defenses.

Kazuha had moved too, positioning herself on your other side. Her compact body pressed against your arm, her breath warm against your shoulder.

"We talked about this," she said. "The three of us. All last night. We took turns sharing what we were feeling and all of it kept coming back to the same thing." She kissed your shoulder through your shirt. "We want to belong to you. Completely. However that looks. Whatever that means."

Yuna's hand slid up your arm, tracing the line of your bicep. "But only if you want us. Only if this is something you choose. We won't force anything on you ever again. We're done taking. Now we only want to give."

Your head was spinning. The situation was impossible—three women who'd made your life a living nightmare now offering themselves to you like penance. Like prayer.

And the worst part? You wanted it. You wanted them. The attraction had always been there, buried under layers of hurt and resentment. They were beautiful. All three of them, in different ways. You'd have to be blind not to see it.

"I'm going to kiss you now," Yuna said. It wasn't a question, exactly, but there was space in the statement for you to say no. To stop this before it went any further.

You didn't say no.

Her lips met yours with a desperation that stole your breath. This wasn't like the earlier kisses—gentle, tentative, exploratory. This was hunger given form. Her tongue swept into your mouth, claiming, devouring, and you felt yourself falling backward onto the bed as she followed you down.

"Mmmm," she moaned against your lips. "I've wanted this. Fuck. I've wanted this since the moment I saw you yesterday and everything changed."

She broke the kiss to trail her mouth down your jaw, your neck, the hollow of your throat. Her hands worked at the remaining buttons of your shirt, pushing the fabric aside to expose your chest to the cool air of the apartment.

"So beautiful," she breathed against your skin. "How did we never see how beautiful you were?"

Kazuha had stood up from the bed, and now she was removing her bralette with quick, efficient movements. Her breasts were small and pert, with dusky nipples already peaked in the cool air. She caught you looking and smiled—a real smile, not her usual mocking smirk.

"Like what you see?" She crawled back onto the bed, settling on your other side. "You can touch. I want you to touch. I want your hands everywhere."

Winter hadn't moved from her position on the floor. But now she rose gracefully and began unbuttoning her own shirt, revealing pale skin and a delicate lavender bra underneath. Her movements were slower than Kazuha's—deliberate, almost ritualistic. Like she was unwrapping a gift.

"I want to try something," Winter said. "Something I've been thinking about since yesterday. Will you let me?"

"What?"

Instead of answering, she sank to her knees again—this time between your legs. Her pale fingers found the button of your jeans, and she looked up at you with wide, hungry eyes.

"Can I?" she asked. "I want to show you how sorry I am. I want to worship you the way you deserve."

Your throat was dry. "Yes."

She made quick work of your button and zipper, tugging your jeans down your hips with trembling hands. When she'd gotten them off entirely—leaving you in just your boxer briefs on Yuna's silk sheets—she sat back on her heels and just looked at you.

"I spent so long making you feel worthless," she said quietly. "I want to spend the rest of my life making you feel like a god."

Then she leaned forward and pressed her lips against your length through the thin cotton of your boxers.

The sensation made you gasp. Her mouth was warm, even through the fabric, and you could feel her breath ghosting over your sensitive skin. She kissed her way up your shaft, leaving damp patches on the cotton, before hooking her fingers in your waistband and pulling down.

Your cock sprang free, already hard and aching. Winter's eyes went wide.

"Oh," she breathed. "You're…" She swallowed. "You're perfect."

All parties involved in this narrative are adults acting freely, consensually, and with mutual enjoyment.

Yuna and Kazuha had been watching, their own hands wandering over each other's bodies in absent, distracted patterns. Now they both made sounds of appreciation, pressing closer to get a better view.

"He's gorgeous," Kazuha said. Her hand slid down her own stomach, disappearing between her thighs. "Winter, make him feel good. Show him what your mouth can do when you're not using it to hurt people."

Winter flinched slightly at the reminder of her cruelty, but she didn't argue. Instead, she leaned forward and ran her tongue in a long, slow stripe from the base of your cock to the tip.

The pleasure was immediate and intense. You groaned, your hands fisting in the sheets beneath you.

"Ohhhh, fuck," you gasped.

She swirled her tongue around the head, teasing, tasting. Her pale eyes stayed fixed on your face, watching every reaction, cataloging every gasp and twitch. She was learning you. Memorizing what made you feel good.

"You taste so good," she murmured against your flesh. "I've been imagining this. Dreaming about it. I woke up this morning with my fingers between my legs and your name on my lips."

Then she took you into her mouth.

The wet heat was overwhelming. She sank down slowly, inch by inch, her throat relaxing to accommodate your length. Her hand wrapped around the base, stroking what she couldn't fit, while her other hand cupped your balls gently.

"Winter, fuck," you groaned. Your hips twitched upward without your permission, and she made a small sound of surprise that vibrated through your cock.

She pulled back briefly, a string of saliva connecting her lips to your shaft. "Don't hold back. Use me however you want. This is for you."

Then she dove back in with renewed enthusiasm.

Yuna had grown tired of watching. She straddled your thigh, grinding her core against your leg while her mouth found your neck. You could feel the heat of her even through her jeans, the dampness that had already soaked through the denim.

"I'm so wet," she panted against your throat. "Watching her suck you… it's making me insane. I can feel myself dripping." She ground harder against your leg, chasing friction. "I want you inside me so badly. I want to feel you split me open."

Kazuha had positioned herself on your other side, but instead of grinding against you, she'd taken your hand and pressed it between her thighs. Her sex was bare—she must have removed her pants at some point—and soaking wet.

"Feel what you do to me," she whispered. Her hips rolled against your palm, smearing her arousal across your fingers. "I've never been this wet for anyone. Never wanted anyone this much. You're all I can think about."

Your brain was short-circuiting. Three women. Three beautiful, terrifying, formerly cruel women, all touching you, all wanting you, all desperate to make you feel good. It was too much. It wasn't enough.

Winter was working your cock with increasing urgency now, her head bobbing in a steady rhythm. Her moans vibrated through your flesh, and the sounds she made were obscene—wet and hungry and desperate.

"Mmmmph," she moaned around your shaft. "Mmm, you feel so good in my mouth. So hard. So perfect."

She pulled back with a gasp, saliva and precum stringing between her lips and your cock. Her hand replaced her mouth, stroking you rapidly while she caught her breath.

"I need you to know," she panted, "that I've never done this for anyone. Never wanted to. But for you…" She leaned forward and kissed the tip reverently. "For you, I'd stay on my knees forever."

Then she took you deep again, and this time she didn't stop. Her throat worked around your length as she swallowed you down, and you could feel yourself getting close. The pressure was building at the base of your spine, your balls tightening with the need for release.

"I'm going to—" you started to warn her.

She didn't pull back. If anything, she doubled down, her hand pumping what she couldn't fit while her mouth worked the rest with desperate enthusiasm. Her eyes stayed locked on yours, giving you permission, begging you to let go.

"Fuck, Winter, I'm—" The orgasm crashed through you like a wave. Your hips jerked upward, driving yourself deeper into her throat as you came. She swallowed around you, taking everything you gave her, and when you finally stilled, she pulled back slowly and pressed a kiss to your softening cock.

"Thank you," she breathed. "Thank you for letting me. Thank you for trusting me."

All parties involved in this narrative are adults acting freely, consensually, and with mutual enjoyment.

Yuna had stopped grinding against your leg to watch Winter finish you off. Now her dark eyes were blazing with need.

"My turn," she said. It wasn't a question.

But Kazuha made a noise of protest. "You went first yesterday. You got to hold his hand first. I want a turn."

"You can have the next one," Yuna promised. "I just need… I need him inside me. I need to feel him. I've been going crazy."

Winter had moved to the side, her pale cheeks flushed, her lips swollen from use. But she didn't look satisfied—she looked hungry for more.

"We can share," she said quietly. "We talked about this. We're a unit now. His harem. His to command. We don't have to compete."

The word "harem" sent a jolt through your spent body. You weren't sure if you were ready for another round yet, but your cock twitched at the thought.

Yuna considered this for a moment. Then she nodded slowly. "You're right. We share. That's the deal. That's what we agreed."

She climbed off your thigh and began removing her jeans, revealing long legs and a lacy thong that was visibly soaked with her arousal. Her body was incredible—toned and elegant, with full breasts that spilled over her bra and curves in all the right places.

"Kazuha," she said, "you wanted his hands. Take them. Winter, you can have his mouth. I'll ride him when he's ready."

The three women rearranged themselves around you with military efficiency. Kazuha took position by your right side, guiding your hand back between her thighs. Winter climbed up the bed and straddled your chest, facing you, her pale sex inches from your face. And Yuna settled between your legs, her mouth closing over your softening cock to bring you back to full hardness.

The sensation of three women pleasuring you—and themselves—simultaneously was overwhelming. Your brain couldn't process all the inputs: Kazuha's wet heat against your fingers, Winter's hands braced on your chest as she positioned herself, Yuna's talented mouth working you back to attention.

"Touch me," Kazuha pleaded, rolling her hips against your palm. "Inside. Please. I need your fingers inside me."

You obeyed, sliding two fingers into her slick channel. She was tight, impossibly wet, and she clenched around you with a moan.

"Ohhhh, yes. Just like that. Fuck." Her head fell back, her hips moving in a steady rhythm. "Your fingers feel so good. So much better than my own. I've been touching myself all night thinking about you and it wasn't enough, it was never enough—"

Winter had lowered herself to your mouth, and the taste of her filled your senses. She was sweeter than you expected, with a hint of musk that made your cock twitch in Yuna's mouth. You ran your tongue through her folds, finding her clit and circling it with the tip.

"Oh!" Winter cried out. Her thighs trembled on either side of your head. "Oh, fuck, your tongue, yes, right there, please don't stop—"

You wrapped your arms around her thighs, holding her in place while you feasted on her. Your fingers continued their rhythm inside Kazuha, and you could feel both women getting closer, their moans harmonizing in the quiet room.

Yuna had succeeded in her mission—your cock was hard again, aching for release. She pulled back and looked up at you with dark, hungry eyes.

"I need you inside me," she said. "Now. Please. I can't wait anymore."

Winter reluctantly lifted herself from your face, and Kazuha whimpered as you withdrew your fingers. But neither protested as Yuna positioned herself above you and sank down onto your length in one smooth motion.

The sensation of her enveloping you was indescribable. She was tight and wet and so hot you thought you might burn alive. Her back arched as she took you to the hilt, a moan tearing from her throat.

"Ohhhhh fuck, you feel so good. You're so big. You're stretching me so perfectly—"

She began to move, rolling her hips in a slow rhythm that drove you crazy. Her hands braced on your chest for leverage, her dark hair falling around her face like a curtain.

Kazuha had moved to sit beside you, her own hand between her legs, watching Yuna ride you with desperate hunger. Winter had positioned herself on your other side, one hand pinching her nipples while the other worked her clit.

"Tell us you're ours," Yuna panted, her hips speeding up. "Tell us you'll keep us. Tell us we belong to you."

The words tumbled out before you could stop them. "You're mine. All three of you. You belong to me."

The effect was instantaneous. Yuna's whole body shuddered, her rhythm faltering. "Say it again. Please."

"You're mine. You belong to me. I'm going to keep you."

She came with a scream, her walls clenching around your cock like a vice. The sensation pushed you over the edge too, and you spilled inside her with a groan of your own.

Kazuha and Winter had worked themselves to the edge watching, and they followed moments later, crying out in tandem as pleasure crashed through them.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was heavy breathing.

Then Yuna collapsed forward onto your chest, her dark hair spreading across your skin like ink.

"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you for choosing us. We're going to spend the rest of our lives making you happy. I promise."

The other two curled against your sides, their bodies warm and soft. And for the first time in months—maybe years—you felt something like peace.

Whatever came next, you'd face it together.

However deep down. You still have a feeling. That something is not right. This whole thing is not right. Their love was not right. As you caresses Winter's head, You began to wonder. If all of this. Is just a dream come true. Or is it a Nightmare waiting to happen.

You woke slowly, consciousness returning in fragments. A warm, wet heat surrounded your cock. Your hips jerked instinctively, and a low groan escaped your throat before you were fully awake.

"Mmmm, he's waking up," Kazuha's voice came from somewhere to your left. Giggling. "We almost got him there."

Your eyes fluttered open. Morning light filtered through curtains you didn't recognize, and for a disorienting moment, you had no idea where you were. Then sensation crashed back—the warmth, the wetness, the soft weight of bodies pressed against yours.

Winter's head was between your legs, her pale hair spilled across your thighs like moonlight on water. Her mouth worked your shaft with desperate devotion, tongue swirling around the head before she took you deep. Her cheeks hollowed, and the suction made your vision blur.

"Ohhh, fuck," you breathed.

Yuna lay on your other side, her dark head resting on your chest, watching Winter work with possessive satisfaction. Her elegant fingers traced patterns across your stomach, nails dragging lightly across your skin.

"Good morning," she purred without looking up. "Did you sleep well? We tried not to wake you too many times during the night."

"During the—" You stopped. Tried to process. "How many times?"

"Four," Kazuha answered proudly. She was curled against your side, her compact body warm and soft. Her round face held a deceptively innocent smile. "You came in your sleep. It was so hot. We couldn't help ourselves."

"We had to have you," Winter pulled back just enough to speak, her pale eyes feverish. A string of saliva connected her swollen lips to your cock. "Every time you got hard, we needed to take care of you. It would be cruel not to."

This wasn't right. None of this was right.

Yesterday's memories crashed over you—the library, the confessions, the sex. The way they'd looked at you like you were the only thing keeping them alive. The desperation in every touch, every word. And underneath it all, that gnawing certainty that something was profoundly, terrifyingly wrong.

You tried to sit up. Three sets of hands immediately pressed against your chest, pushing you back down.

"Stay," Yuna said softly. Her dark eyes held yours. "Let us take care of you. We need to take care of you."

"No." The word came out hoarse. "We need to talk. This has to stop."

The effect was immediate and devastating.

Winter's face crumbled like you'd slapped her. Her pale skin went even whiter, her eyes going wide with genuine terror. She released your cock like it burned her, scrambling backward on the bed.

"Stop?" Her voice cracked. "You want us to stop? We can't—we can't. You don't understand, I can't exist without you now. I've tried to imagine it, tried to picture going back to how things were, and there's nothing there. Just emptiness. Just—"

"Shh." Yuna sat up, but her composure had cracked too. Her perfectly composed features were twisted with panic. "He doesn't mean it. He's just confused."

"I'm not confused." Your voice hardened. "I don't know what happened yesterday, but people don't just change overnight. This isn't normal. None of this is normal."

Kazuha had gone very still beside you. Her round face had lost its sweetness, replaced by something colder. More calculating.

"You're right," she said quietly. "It's not normal. We know it's not normal. We can feel how wrong it is, how our thoughts aren't our own anymore. But here's the thing—we don't care."

She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper.

"I spent months making your life hell because it made me feel powerful. I liked watching you suffer. And now the thought of hurting you makes me physically ill. I can't do it. I literally cannot make myself be cruel to you anymore. My brain won't let me." Her smile was brittle. "So you can talk about normalcy all you want. But we're never going back. We can't. And we won't let you go."

"This is insane."

"Probably," Yuna agreed. Her breathing had steadied, but her hands trembled slightly. "But it's real. This is our reality now. You're our reality. And we're going to spend every moment proving that to you."

Winter had moved to the foot of the bed, her slender body curled into itself. She looked small. Fragile. Nothing like the sharp-tongued woman who'd terrorized you for months.

"Please," she whispered. "Please don't send us away. I know we don't deserve you. I know we've been horrible. But we'll do anything—anything—to make you happy. Just tell us what you want. Whatever it is. We'll do it."

The desperation in her voice made your chest tighten. This wasn't manipulation, wasn't performance. She genuinely believed every word.

And that was somehow worse.

"I need space," you said carefully. "Time to think. This is moving too fast."

Yuna exchanged glances with the others. Something unspoken passed between them—some decision made in the silence.

"No," she said softly.

"What?"

"We can't give you space." Her dark eyes held yours with unwavering intensity. "Every moment apart from you feels like dying. I'm not being dramatic. I mean it literally. My chest hurts. My head spins. I can't breathe properly when you're not near me."

"That sounds like a medical problem."

"It's a you problem," Kazuha corrected. "You're the only thing that makes it stop."

Before you could respond, Yuna moved. She reached beneath the pillow and produced something that glinted in the morning light—soft silk scarves, deep red, the color matching the wire that had started all this.

"We talked about this last night," she said calmly. "After you fell asleep. We knew you might try to pull away."

"You planned this?"

"We planned for every possibility." She nodded to Kazuha, who took your right wrist. Winter emerged from her huddle to take your left.

"Wait—"

"We're going to make you feel so good that you won't want to leave," Yuna continued, her voice steady and reasonable. "We're going to worship every inch of you until your brain melts and you understand that you belong with us. That we belong to you."

You tried to resist, but their grip was surprisingly strong. Three women working in concert, coordinated with the precision of a military operation.

"Hold him," Yuna commanded.

Kazuha threw her leg over your chest, pinning your torso. Her bare sex pressed against your stomach, and you could feel how wet she already was. She leaned forward, using her dancer's flexibility to press her forehead against yours.

"Don't fight," she whispered. "We'll make it so good. We'll make you forget everything except us."

All parties involved in this narrative are adults acting freely, consensually, and with mutual enjoyment.

The scarf wound around your right wrist—silk, smooth, tight enough to hold but not enough to hurt. Kazuha guided your arm up, tying it to the bedframe with practiced efficiency. Winter followed suit on your left, her fingers trembling but determined.

"Stop," you said again. But even you could hear how weak it sounded.

"We can't," Winter answered. Her pale eyes were wet with tears. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But we can't."

Yuna finished securing both wrists, then moved down the bed. She produced two more scarves from somewhere—how many had they prepared?—and began binding your ankles.

"You're going to thank us," she predicted. "Once it's over. Once you understand."

"This is kidnapping."

"It's devotion." She looked up at you, and her dark eyes held no irony. "We're devoted to you. Completely. Totally. The way nuns are devoted to God. The way martyrs are devoted to their faith. You're our religion now."

Your ankles secured, you were spread eagle on Yuna's bed, completely at their mercy. And despite everything—the wrongness, the panic clawing at the edges of your mind—your cock was already hard again.

Yuna noticed. Of course she did.

"See?" She smiled. "Part of you knows exactly what you need."

She climbed onto the bed, positioning herself between your legs. Her dark hair fell forward, creating a curtain around your cock as she leaned down.

"Let us prove ourselves to you," she murmured. Her tongue traced a line from base to tip. "Let us show you what devotion means."

Then she took you into her mouth, and thought became impossible.

The wet heat was overwhelming. She worked you with skill that spoke of practice—though you knew she'd never done this before yesterday. It was as if the wish had given them knowledge along with obsession. Her throat relaxed as she took you deep, her tongue swirling patterns that made your back arch.

"Ohhhh, fuck—" The moan tore from your throat.

Kazuha had moved to your side, her compact body pressing against you. Her mouth found your nipple, teeth grazing the sensitive skin before her tongue soothed the sting.

"You taste so good," she murmured against your chest. "I've been imagining this all night. The way your skin feels under my tongue. The sounds you make."

Winter had recovered from her panic, her natural sharpness returning. She climbed to your other side, her pale fingers wrapping around the base of your cock where Yuna's mouth couldn't reach.

"Let us drain you," she whispered. Her thumb pressed against the sensitive spot beneath the head. "We're going to take everything you have. Every drop. Until you can't think anymore. Until you can't remember why you wanted to leave."

Yuna pulled back with a wet pop. "Winter, share."

The pale woman obeyed instantly, moving down to join Yuna between your legs. Their faces pressed together, cheek to cheek, both of them looking up at you with hunger that bordered on madness.

They kissed each other—a deep, messy kiss with your cock inches away. Their tongues tangled, sharing the taste of you. Then they pulled apart and both turned to your shaft.

"Oh fuck—" The sight alone nearly made you come.

They worked in tandem—Yuna on one side, Winter on the other, their tongues tracing parallel paths up your length. When they reached the tip, their mouths met in another kiss, your cock between them.

"MMMMMMM," Winter moaned, the vibration traveling through your flesh.

"So hard," Yuna murmured. "So perfect. You were made for us."

Kazuha had climbed higher, straddling your chest again. Her wet sex pressed against your sternum as she leaned forward.

"I need you to touch me," she said. "Even tied like this. Figure out how."

She positioned herself so your chin could reach her core if you strained upward. The scent of her filled your nostrils—musky, sweet, desperate.

"Please," she begged. "I've been wet since last night. I need to feel your tongue on me. Please, please, please—"

You gave in. There was no point in resisting—not when every nerve ending screamed for release, not when your body had already surrendered.

Your tongue found her folds, and she screamed.

"AHHHHH! Oh god, oh fuck, yes, yes, YES—"

Her hips bucked against your face, grinding desperately. Her slick smeared across your chin and cheeks as she rode your tongue.

"More," she demanded. "Inside. Put your tongue inside me—"

You obeyed. Stiffened your tongue and pushed into her channel, feeling her clench around you.

"FUCK! Fuck fuck fuck—"

Below, Yuna and Winter had split duties—Yuna swallowing your cock while Winter's mouth worked your balls. The dual sensation was devastating. Wet heat surrounded your shaft while Winter's tongue traced the seam of your sac, then lower, teasing the sensitive skin behind.

"You're close," Yuna observed, pulling back briefly. "We can feel it."

"Let us have it," Winter added, her pale eyes feverish. "Give us everything."

All parties involved in this narrative are adults acting freely, consensually, and with mutual enjoyment.

Yuna sank down again, taking you to the root. Her throat constricted around your head as she swallowed. Winter's mouth closed around one of your balls, sucking gently.

Kazuha was grinding against your face with increasing desperation.

"I'm going to—" she gasped. "Your tongue is so deep, it's so deep—"

You felt her thighs begin to tremble against your head. Her whole body tensed.

"I'm coming, I'm coming, I'm—AHHHHHH!"

She gushed against your chin, her release coating your face in hot slick. The taste of her flooded your mouth—sweeter than you expected, with an edge of salt.

The sight and sensation pushed you over the edge.

Your hips strained against the bindings as you came, spurting into Yuna's throat. She swallowed convulsively, taking every drop, her dark eyes rolling back with pleasure.

"MMMMMMM!" Her moan vibrated through your cock, prolonging your orgasm.

When you finally stilled, she pulled back slowly, licking her lips.

"Delicious," she breathed. "You taste like belonging."

Winter had released your balls and was looking at Yuna with hungry envy.

"Share," she demanded.

Yuna turned and kissed her, and you watched them pass your cum between their mouths. Their tongues tangled, sharing the taste of you, both of them moaning into the kiss.

"Again," Kazuha said from above. She hadn't moved from your face. "I need more. I'm still so wet—"

But you were spent. Your cock softened against your thigh, exhausted.

The three women exchanged glances.

"We'll get him ready again," Yuna said calmly. "We have all day. All week. However long it takes."

"We're going to milk you dry," Winter added, her sharp features softened with satisfied greed. "Every drop you have belongs to us."

They descended on you again—three mouths, six hands, working in concert to bring you back to hardness. Despite your exhaustion, despite the alarm bells screaming in the back of your mind, you felt yourself responding.

This was wrong. All of this was wrong.

But as Yuna's mouth found your cock again, as Kazuha's slick pressed against your lips, as Winter's nails dragged down your chest, you couldn't remember why.

You lost track of time. Could have been minutes, could have been hours. The three women worked you with tireless devotion, bringing you to the edge and backing off just enough to keep you hard without tipping over. They seemed to know your body better than you did—every sensitive spot, every trigger point, exactly how much pressure you could take before breaking.

Yuna's mouth was a revelation. She'd taken to sucking your cock like she'd been born for it, her elegant features stretched around your girth as she worked you with single-minded focus. Her dark hair fell across your thighs, the strands catching on your sweat-slick skin. Every few minutes she'd pull back to let Kazuha or Winter take over, but her eyes never left your face.

"We've been talking," Yuna said during one such rotation, her voice calm and conversational despite the obscene situation. Her hand continued stroking you where her mouth had been, keeping you on edge. "The three of us. While you were sleeping."

"Mmmph—" Winter's response was muffled by your cock, her pale head bobbing in your lap. She'd gotten startlingly good at deep-throating, her earlier gag reflex seemingly erased by sheer determination.

Kazuha lay curled against your side, her compact body warm and soft. She'd already come on your face twice, her slick drying on your chin and cheeks, but she showed no sign of being satisfied. Her fingers traced lazy patterns across your chest, nails dragging lightly through the hair there.

"We've come to a decision," Yuna continued. She met your eyes, and something in her gaze made your stomach clench—something beyond obsession, beyond devotion. Something absolute. "We want you to understand how serious we are. How permanent this is."

Winter pulled off your cock with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting her swollen lips to your head. "We want you to make us pregnant."

The words hung in the air. For a moment, even the sounds of breathing seemed to stop.

"What?"

"You heard me." Winter's pale eyes held yours with unnerving intensity. "We want your children. All three of us. We want to carry your babies, to be tied to you forever. To wake up every day with a piece of you growing inside us."

Your mind reeled. This was insane. This was beyond insane. Yesterday these women had been your tormentors, and now they wanted—

"You can't be serious."

"We've never been more serious about anything," Yuna said softly. She released your cock and climbed onto the bed, positioning herself above you. Her dark hair curtained around her face as she looked down at you with something that might have been love if love could be weaponized. "We discussed it all night. We want this. We need this. To show you how committed we are. To make sure you can never send us away."

"Because if we have your children," Kazuha added from beside you, her sweet voice carrying an edge of steel, "you'll have to keep us. You'll have to take care of us. We'll be bound together for the rest of our lives."

The scarves around your wrists and ankles suddenly felt tighter. You pulled against them instinctively, but they held firm.

"This is crazy. You can't just—"

"We can." Yuna lowered herself until her sex pressed against your shaft, her slick smearing across your length. She was soaked—had been since this started, maybe since yesterday. The heat of her was nearly unbearable. "We already stopped taking our birth control. We've been off it for weeks, actually. We were planning this even before—"

She stopped herself, a flicker of confusion crossing her elegant features. "Even before what? I can't remember why we started planning it. Just that we needed to. Needed to be yours completely."

The wish. The stupid, joking wish you'd made with that wire. You'd asked for them to fall for you, but this—this was something else entirely. This was obsession weaponized, desire twisted into something desperate and all-consuming.

"I don't want this," you said, but even you could hear how weak it sounded. Your cock was achingly hard between Yuna's wet folds, your body betraying every protest your mind tried to make.

"Yes you do." Yuna began to move, sliding her slick channel along your shaft without taking you inside. The friction was maddening. "Your body knows what it wants. What it needs. And we need it too—so badly it hurts. Every moment we're not filled with you, not claimed by you, it feels like we're dying."

"Please," Kazuha whispered against your ear. Her hand slid down your stomach to join Yuna's at your cock, both women touching you at once. "Please let us have this. Let us prove ourselves. We'll be such good mothers. We'll raise your children together, love them together, worship you together for the rest of our lives."

Winter had moved to kneel beside Yuna, her pale body a stark contrast to the other woman's darker coloring. Her sharp features were softened with something like reverence.

"We've been such terrible people," she said quietly. "We hurt you for months, made your life miserable, and we can never make up for that. But we can give you this. We can give you children, a family, a harem devoted solely to your pleasure. We can spend the rest of our lives serving you, loving you, being whatever you need us to be."

Her hand joined the others on your cock, three sets of fingers working you together.

"Just give us this one thing," she begged. "Give us your children. Let us be yours forever."

Yuna shifted her hips, and suddenly your cock was positioned at her entrance. The heat of her was incredible—wet and grasping, her body begging for yours.

"Say yes," she breathed. "Tell us you want this too. Tell us we can have your babies."

Your mouth opened. Closed. You wanted to say no, to tell them this was insane, that you couldn't possibly—

"Yesssss," you hissed as Yuna sank down onto your cock.

The sensation was overwhelming. She was tight, tighter than you expected, her channel gripping you like she'd been made for this exact purpose. Her back arched as she took you to the root, a keening moan tearing from her throat.

"OH GOD—oh fuck, you're so deep, you're so deep—"

She stayed there for a moment, impaled on your cock, her whole body trembling. Then she began to move.

Her hips rolled in slow waves, drawing you out almost completely before sinking back down. Each movement made her cry out—soft desperate sounds that spoke of pleasure almost too intense to bear. Her dark hair swayed with the motion, brushing against her shoulders, her back, your thighs.

"Fuck, you feel so good inside me," she gasped. Her hands pressed against your chest for balance, nails digging into your skin hard enough to leave marks. "So thick, so perfect, like you were made to fit inside me—"

Kazuha had moved to straddle your face again, her wet sex hovering inches from your mouth. The scent of her was intoxicating—musky and sweet, the taste of her previous orgasms still coating your chin.

"Please," she begged. "I need your tongue again. I need to come while you fill Yuna. Please, please—"

You gave in. What else could you do? Your tongue found her folds, and she screamed.

"AHHHHH! Oh fuck, right there, your tongue is so good, so good—"

She ground against your face with the same rhythm Yuna used on your cock, their movements synchronized in some unspoken harmony. Below you could feel your orgasm building—pressure at the base of your spine, heat pooling in your gut.

"I'm close," Yuna warned. Her movements had become erratic, desperate. "You're going to come inside me. You're going to fill me with your cum, make me pregnant, claim me forever—"

"Oh god—" Your voice was muffled by Kazuha's sex, but the words escaped anyway.

"YES, say it! Promise me! Promise you'll fill me—"

"I'll fill you," you heard yourself say. "I'll give you everything—"

"AHHHHH!" Yuna threw her head back and screamed. Her whole body seized around you, her channel clenching in rhythmic pulses that pushed you over the edge.

You came harder than you ever had in your life. Spurt after spurt of cum erupted into her, filling her, marking her. She ground down onto you, taking every drop, her body milking yours with desperate intensity.

"Yes, yes, YES! I can feel it, I can feel you coming inside me, so hot, so much—give me all of it, give me your baby—"

All parties involved in this narrative are adults acting freely, consensually, and with mutual enjoyment.

The orgasm seemed to last forever. When it finally ended, Yuna collapsed forward onto your chest, her dark hair spilling across your skin. You could feel her heart hammering against your ribs, feel her body still trembling with aftershocks.

"Perfect," she murmured against your neck. "That was perfect. I can feel your cum inside me, so warm, so right…"

Kazuha had pulled back from your face, her own orgasm apparently forgotten in the intensity of the moment. She looked at Yuna with something like envy.

"My turn," she said. "You promised. You said you'd give us all your children."

"Give him a minute," Yuna protested without lifting her head. "He needs to recover."

"He doesn't need anything except us," Winter interrupted. She'd been watching the whole scene with hungry eyes, one hand between her own legs, fingering herself in steady rhythm. "Look at him—he's already getting hard again."

She was right. Despite the orgasm that had just wrung you out, despite the exhaustion pulling at your limbs, your cock was stiffening inside Yuna's warmth. The wish, or whatever power that wire had given you, wouldn't let you stop.

Yuna felt it too. She lifted her head to look at you, dark eyes wide with wonder.

"You are perfect," she breathed. "Everything we always needed."

She lifted herself off you with obvious reluctance, your cum already starting to leak from her well-fucked hole. The sight of it—white and thick, dripping down her thighs—made something primitive stir in your chest.

"Kazuha's turn," Yuna said, moving to kneel beside the bed. "But first, we need to make sure he's ready."

She gestured to Winter, who immediately understood. The pale woman moved between your legs, her mouth descending on your cock before you could protest. She licked you clean—tasting Yuna's slick, your cum, the mingled flavors of your combined pleasure.

"So good," she murmured against your shaft. "You taste like ownership. Like belonging."

Kazuha had positioned herself above you now, her compact body hovering over your freshly cleaned cock. Her round face held an expression of desperate anticipation.

"I've never done this before," she admitted softly. "Not before yesterday, I mean. I was saving myself for—for something. Someone. I didn't know it was you until—"

She shook her head, confusion flickering across her features.

"Until suddenly it was all I could think about. Being yours. Being filled by you. Carrying your child." She lowered herself until your cock pressed against her entrance. "Make me yours. Please. I need it so badly."

She sank down onto you with a sharp cry.

"OH—oh fuck, you're so big—"

She was tighter than Yuna, her body gripping you like a vice. She stayed still for a moment, adjusting to the sensation of being filled, her face a mask of concentration.

"Move," you commanded, and the word surprised you. Something had shifted—some acceptance of this new reality, this strange power you held over them.

Kazuha's eyes flew open at your command, round face lighting up with joy.

"Yes—whatever you want, anything you want—"

She began to move, her hips working in a different rhythm than Yuna's. Where Yuna had been smooth and undulating, Kazuha was enthusiastic and eager, bouncing on your cock with almost frantic energy.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck—you feel incredible, so deep, hitting places I didn't know existed—"

Yuna and Winter had moved to either side of you, both women watching Kazuha ride you with possessive satisfaction. Winter's hand found your face, turning your head toward her.

"Kiss me," she demanded. "While you fill her, kiss me—"

Her mouth found yours, and she kissed you with desperate intensity. Her tongue invaded your mouth, tangling with yours, tasting and claiming. When she pulled back, her pale lips were swollen and red.

"Next time," she whispered against your mouth. "You're going to fill me next. You're going to pump me so full of cum that I'll be dripping for days."

Kazuha's movements had grown more erratic, her breath coming in sharp gasps.

"I'm close—I'm so close—your cock is hitting my spot every time, it's too much, too good—"

"Come for me," you ordered, and she shattered.

"AHHHHHHH! OH GOD, OH FUCK, I'M COMING, I'M COMING ON YOUR COCK—"

Her channel clenched around you in rhythmic pulses, and the sensation pushed you over the edge again. You came inside her with a groan, filling her with your second load of the morning.

"YES! I can feel it, I can feel you coming, filling me up, giving me your baby—THANK YOU, thank you, thank you—"

She collapsed forward onto your chest, her compact body shaking with aftershocks. You could feel her tears against your skin—tears of pleasure, of relief, of something that might have been joy.

"Two down," Yuna observed from beside you. Her voice was calm, but her dark eyes blazed with intensity. "One to go."

Winter had already taken position, her pale body replacing Kazuha's above you. But instead of sinking down onto your cock, she turned around, presenting her back to you.

"I want you to see," she explained. "I want you to watch your cock disappear inside me. I want you to see your cum dripping out when you're done."

She lowered herself onto you with a moan, her tight channel gripping your oversensitive cock.

"OH—oh fuck, you're still so hard, how are you still so hard—"

The sight was obscene and intoxicating—your darkened shaft disappearing into her pale body, her round cheeks bouncing with each movement. Yuna and Kazuha had recovered enough to move beside her, both women running their hands across Winter's body as she rode you.

"So beautiful," Kazuha murmured. "Taking him so well. Being such a good harem-sister."

"Our turn to help," Yuna added. She reached between Winter's legs, her elegant fingers finding the other woman's clit.

Winter screamed.

"AHHHHH! Oh god, Yuna, what are you—OH FUCK—"

"Making sure you come hard enough to catch his seed," Yuna explained calmly. Her fingers worked Winter's clit in tight circles. "We need you convulsing around him, pulling his cum deep into your womb."

Winter's movements became frantic, her body chasing the pleasure Yuna provided. Each bounce on your cock drove you deeper, her channel gripping you like she was trying to pull you inside permanently.

"More," she begged. "Please, I need—I need—"

Kazuha leaned in and took one of Winter's pale nipples into her mouth, sucking hard. Winter's back arched, and a wail tore from her throat.

"I'M COMING—I'M COMING—FILL ME, PLEASE, FILL ME WITH YOUR CUM—"

You came for the third time, your body somehow finding more to give her. The orgasm was almost painful in its intensity, your cock pulsing inside her as you pumped her full.

"YES! I can feel it, so hot, so much—mark me, claim me, make me yours forever—"

She collapsed backward, your cock slipping from her body with an obscene wet sound. Your cum immediately began leaking from her stretched hole, dripping onto your stomach.

All three women lay around you now, breathing hard, their bodies slick with sweat and other fluids. The room smelled like sex—musk and salt and something sweeter underneath.

"Perfect," Yuna murmured. She pressed a kiss to your shoulder. "That was perfect."

"Now we wait," Kazuha added, her voice dreamy with satisfaction. "Wait to see if it takes. And if not—"

"We'll keep trying," Winter finished. She'd already begun cleaning you with her mouth, licking up the combined fluids from your stomach. "Every day. As many times as it takes. Until all three of us are round with your children."

She looked up at you, pale eyes feverish with devotion.

"You're never getting rid of us now. We're yours forever."

But then the night would fall, and the dynamic would shift.

It was always unannounced. A sharp, impatient knock on your door at eleven PM, or one in the morning. You’d open it to find her there, sometimes still in her day clothes, sometimes changed into something looser, easier to remove. She never greeted you with a smile; she greeted you with a look of hunger, a need that stripped away the social niceties.

"Stressed," she’d say, pushing past you into the small entryway of your apartment, a bottle of soju or cheap wine in her hand. That was the code. It was the only explanation you ever got.

She would drink, just enough to take the edge off, turning her sharp intellect into something hazier, more tactile. And then she would turn to you. Those encounters were blurs of skin and heat—her straddling you on your couch, her fingers gripping your shoulders, her mouth demanding yours. She used you to chase away the pressure of her classes, the expectations of her family, the weight of being the smart, beautiful senior everyone looked up to. You were her outlet, her release valve. When she was done, when the tension had been fucked out of her system, she would redress, her demeanor shifting instantly back to cool detachment.

"Thanks," she would mutter, already heading for the door. "I'll see myself out."

And then she was gone, leaving you alone in the quiet of your apartment, the scent of her perfume lingering on your pillows, a lingering ache in your chest that had nothing to do with the physical exertion.

You realized, with a sinking feeling that settled in your gut like a stone, that this was exactly what you’d signed up for. It wasn’t a romance. It wasn’t even really a friendship. It was a Friends with Benefits situation in the truest, most cynical sense of the word. She benefited from the stress relief; you benefited from the scrapes of affection she threw your way, the moments when she let you see the cracks in her armor.

You told yourself it was enough. You told yourself that being this close to her, even in this fragmented way, was more than you’d ever dared to hope for back in high school. But as the days dragged on, the silence between the knock on the door became louder. The way she ignored you on campus started to sting. You’d watch her laughing with Nakyoung over iced coffees, looking so effortlessly charismatic, so distant, and wonder if she ever thought about you when you weren't inside her.

Then, the visits stopped.

It had been seven days. A week of silence. No late-night knocks. No texts. You’d walked past her in the quad on Tuesday; she’d been deep in conversation with a professor, nodding earnestly, not sparing you a single glance. You’d started to settle back into the monotony of your own life, the strange, adrenaline-fueled routine fading into a memory. Maybe she was done with you. Maybe she’d found someone else, or maybe the stress had lifted enough that she didn't need a distraction anymore.

The thought left you hollow, but you tried to accept it. It was bound to happen eventually.

It was a Friday night, the rain drumming a relentless rhythm against your window, filling your small apartment with a grey, melancholy light. You were sitting on the couch, staring at a paused movie on your laptop, nursing a lukewarm beer, when the buzzer rang.

The sound was so unexpected, so jarring in the quiet, that you jumped. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a Pavlovian response. You glanced at the clock. It was late. Too late for a social call.

You moved to the intercom, your finger hovering over the button. "Hello?"

"It's… open up. Please."

The voice wasn't Sohyun's. It was lower, slightly huskier, and unmistakably familiar. You frowned, your brow furrowing. You knew that voice. You’d heard it echoing across lecture halls, laughing at tables you couldn't sit at.

You buzzed the door open, waiting with a growing sense of confusion. Heavy footsteps thundered up the stairs—not Sohyun's light, quick tread, but something heavier, more purposeful. Then, a sharp knock on your door.

You unlocked it and pulled it open.

The first thing you saw was a pair of long legs, ending in expensive-looking boots scuffed with mud. Your eyes traveled up, past a soaked trench coat, to a face that was usually composed and regal, but was currently scrunched up in a mixture of annoyance and exertion.

Xinyu.

The "Goddess" of the campus. Tall, imposing, with features so sharp and elegant they looked carved from marble. But right now, she looked like she was struggling under a significant weight. You realized, with a start, that she was half-carrying, half-dragging someone slumped against her side.

Sohyun.

Your breath caught in your throat. Sohyun was a mess. Her hair, usually so sleek and perfect, was a tangled curtain obscuring half her face. Her clothes—a silk blouse and a skirt that looked far too thin for the rainy weather—were damp and clinging to her. Her eyes were closed, her head lolling dangerously against Xinyu’s shoulder. She was muttering something, a low, repetitive string of syllables that you couldn't quite make out.

Xinyu grunted, shifting her grip. "Are you going to help me, or are you just going to stand there ogling?"

"Sorry!" you stammered, stepping forward quickly. You reached out and took Sohyun's other arm, draping it over your shoulder. The smell of alcohol hit you instantly—sharp, pungent, mixed with the scent of rain and expensive perfume. "Is she okay?"

"She's drunk," Xinyu snapped, though her tone lacked real malice. It sounded more like exhaustion. "F wasted. She insisted on going to some shitty dive bar in Hongdae, and now I'm stuck playing nurse. Move her."

Together, you maneuvered Sohyun through the doorway. She was dead weight, her legs barely moving, her body completely limp. It was a surreal experience, touching Xinyu at all, even indirectly—the brushing of shoulders, the coordinated effort to lift Sohyun. Xinyu was taller than you, strong, her presence commanding even while she was sweaty and annoyed.

You guided Sohyun to the couch. "Easy," you murmured, trying to lower her gently. Sohyun groaned as she hit the cushions, her head rolling back. Her eyes fluttered open for a fraction of a second, glassy and unfocused. She looked right at you, but there was no recognition in her gaze. Just a vague, swimming confusion.

"Your… name…" she slurred, before her eyes slid shut again.

Xinyu straightened up, pressing a hand to her lower back and letting out a long, dramatic exhale. "Fuck, she is heavy," she complained, running a hand through her own hair, which was frizzy from the rain. "How does someone that tiny weigh so much? It’s like dragging a sack of bricks."

She looked around your apartment, her gaze critical, taking in the small living space, the paused movie on the laptop, the empty beer bottle on the table. The contrast between her usual polished environment and your modest, student-apartment reality was stark.

Then, she seemed to realize something. She paused, her posture stiffening slightly. She looked back at you, really looking at you for the first time. "Fuck, I'm sorry. I haven't even introduced myself. That was rude." She extended a hand, her expression shifting from annoyed to something more polite, almost formal. "I'm Xinyu. Nice to meet you."

You stared at her hand for a second, slightly bewildered by the sudden whiplash in the conversation. You wiped your palm on your jeans—not that it mattered, given she was drenched anyway—and took her hand. Her grip was firm, her skin cool from the rain.

"Nice to meet you too… I guess," you replied, feeling a bit lame.

Xinyu let out a short, dry laugh. "Yeah. 'I guess' covers it." She didn't let go of your hand immediately, her eyes studying your face with an intensity that made you want to squirm. She had sharp, intelligent eyes, the kind that missed nothing. "You're the one from the party, right? The freshman she's been… hanging out with?"

"Uh, yeah," you said, not sure how much Sohyun had told her. You certainly didn't think Sohyun advertised your arrangement to her inner circle.

"Right." Xinyu dropped your hand and walked over to your armchair. Without asking, she sank into it, letting her head fall back against the cushion. She closed her eyes, letting out a sound that was half-groan, half-sigh. "God, I'm bloody tired. I swear, if I ever have to listen to Nakyoung talk about her diet plan again while Sohyun does shots, I’m going to scream."

You watched her, unsure of what to do. This was Xinyu. The girl who had headlines in the campus newspaper for winning debate nationals three years in a row. The girl who walked around with an entourage. And she was currently sprawled out in your second-hand armchair, looking like she'd just run a marathon.

"Yo… A-are You okay?" you asked, feeling stupid as soon as the words left your mouth.

She cracked one eye open, giving you a withering look. "Do I look okay? I've been dragging her drunk ass around for two hours. She refused to get in a taxi, she refused to tell me where she lived, and then she started mumbling your name and your address like a broken GPS. It was either bring her here or leave her to drown in a gutter on the side of the road."

She sat up slightly, wincing. "And I just realized I barged in. Sorry about that. I just wanted to drop her off and get out of this rain."

"No, it's fine," you said quickly, moving toward the small kitchenette. "Really. Do you… do you want some water? Or anything else?"

"Water," she said decisively. "Please."

You opened the fridge, the cool air washing over you for a second. You grabbed a bottle of filtered water—the nice stuff you bought for yourself, hoping Sohyun might drink it someday if she ever deigned to visit sober. You twisted the cap off and walked it over to her.

Xinyu took it, her fingers brushing yours. "Thanks," she said, bringing the bottle to her lips and drinking deeply. You watched her throat move, the elegant lines of her neck. It was strange to see her like this—unguarded, human. Usually, she seemed untouchable, a paragon of campus success.

She lowered the bottle, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She looked over at the couch, where Sohyun was sprawled on her back, one arm dangling off the edge, snoring softly.

"She's going to have a massive headache tomorrow," Xinyu commented, her voice quieter now. "She's been stressed lately. More than usual. That debate tournament is coming up, and she's obsessing."

You nodded, leaning against the counter. "Yeah. She mentioned something about that."

Xinyu turned her gaze back to you. The scrutiny was back. "You know," she began, her tone shifting, becoming more conversational, almost probing. "I've known Sohyun since freshman year. We go way back. And I have never seen her act the way she has this past week."

You stiffened slightly. "How do you mean?"

"She disappears," Xinyu said, gesturing vaguely with the water bottle. "She ghosts us. No texts, no calls. And then she shows up the next day looking… well, like she got exactly what she needed. Disheveled. Glow-y." She paused, letting the implication hang in the air. "It's not like her to be so… reckless. She's usually so controlled. Everything is a calculation with her."

You didn't know what to say to that. You picked at a loose thread on your jeans, avoiding her eyes. "She's just busy. I guess."

"Busy," Xinyu repeated, testing the word. She let out a short, humorless laugh. "Sure. Busy." She took another sip of water, her eyes never leaving your face. Then, she dropped the bomb.

"So, did you two fuck each other or something? Cause ain't no way Sohyun could've remembered some guy's name and address, let alone a freshman's, without something."

The bluntness of it made you choke on your own spit. You coughed, your face heating up instantly. "What?"

Xinyu didn't flinch. She just watched you struggle, a faint smirk playing on her lips. It wasn't a mocking smirk, more like an amused, knowing one. "Oh, come on. Don't play coy. You know what I mean. Sohyun doesn't do 'friends' outside the circle. She certainly doesn't do 'random acquaintances' who live in studio apartments off-campus. For her to know exactly where you are, and to come here when she's like that…" She nodded at the sleeping girl on the couch. "There's a reason."

You looked at Sohyun, then back at Xinyu. The lie died on your tongue. There was no point denying it to someone this sharp.

"We…" You started, then stopped, clearing your throat. "Yeah. We're… I mean, we've been hanging out."

Xinyu raised an eyebrow. "Hanging out. Is that what they call it these days?" She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. The movement caused her coat to fall open slightly, revealing a fitted top underneath. "Look, I'm not judging. God knows Sohyun needs to get laid. She's wound up so tight she's going to snap. It's just…" She tilted her head, studying you. "Surprising. That's all."

"Why?" you asked, feeling a spark of defensiveness. "Why is it surprising?"

"Because you're not her type," Xinyu said, bluntly.

You blinked. "Oh."

"Not that you aren't cute," she added, as if that softened the blow. "You are. In a puppy-dog kind of way. But Sohyun usually goes for guys who challenge her. Guys who are arrogant, who think they're smarter than her, who fight back. She likes the debate. The struggle." She glanced at the couch again. "You seem… nice. That's the problem. Nice is boring to her. Usually."

You felt a strange pang in your chest. It was the validation of your own worst fears. The transactional nature of your relationship, the way she ignored you in public—it all made sense under Xinyu's analysis. You were a convenience. A "nice" distraction. You weren't a challenge; you were a solution.

"But," Xinyu continued, her voice dragging out the word, "she came here. Tonight. When she was at her lowest. When she was wasted and vulnerable. She could've called any of us. She could've called Yooyeon, or Nakyoung. We would've picked her up in a second. But she mumbled your name."

She looked back at you, her gaze losing some of its sharpness, becoming more curious. "So, you must be doing something right. Or maybe," she paused, a thoughtful expression crossing her face, "maybe she's changing her mind about what her type is."

You didn't know how to respond to that. You looked at Sohyun again, really looked at her. She was pale, her breathing shallow. The commanding, confident woman who rode you with such authority just a week ago seemed miles away. She looked small. Fragile.

"Is she going to be okay?" you asked softly.

Xinyu sighed, the sound heavy. "Yeah. She just needs sleep. And about a gallon of water." She finished her own water and stood up, placing the empty bottle on your table. "I should get going. I have a study group at eight AM and I smell like a wet dog."

"Thanks for bringing her," you said sincerely. "Really."

"Yeah, yeah." Xinyu buttoned her coat, checking her phone. She paused at the door, her hand on the handle. She turned back to you one last time.

"Listen," she said, her voice lower. "Sohyun… she's complicated. She has walls up higher than the campus library. Don't take it personally if she's an asshole. She doesn't mean to be. Usually." She gave you a wry smile. "Just… take care of her tonight, okay? And maybe… don't let her pretend she doesn't know you tomorrow when she's sober."

With that, she opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. "By the way," she added, poking her head back in. "Your apartment is cozy. It's got… character."

"Thanks," you said.

"See you around, Freshman." And with a final, enigmatic nod, she was gone.

You closed the door behind her, the lock clicking into place with a finality that echoed in the sudden quiet. You stood there for a moment, listening to the rain outside, the silence inside. Your apartment felt different now. It had been invaded by the "real" world, by the people Sohyun actually belonged to.

You walked over to the couch. Sohyun hadn't moved. You sat down on the edge of the coffee table, facing her. Watching her sleep like this felt more intimate than anything you'd done with her sexually. This wasn't the persona she put on for you, or the mask she wore for the world. This was just Sohyun. Unconscious. Vulnerable.

You reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair away from her forehead. Her skin was cool to the touch.

"You really are a handful, aren't you?" you whispered to the empty room.

Xinyu's words rattled around in your head. "Nice is boring to her." "She mumbled your name." "Don't let her pretend she doesn't know you tomorrow."

You looked at the clock. It was past two AM. You were tired, your own head starting to throb from the unexpected drama of the night. But you couldn't just leave her on the couch. She’d be stiff and miserable in the morning.

You stood up and gently maneuvered her, lifting her upper body. She groaned again, murmuring something unintelligible, but didn't wake. It was a struggle, but you managed to get her arms around your shoulders and half-carry her to your bed. You laid her down gently, pulling the duvet over her. You took off her boots, setting them neatly by the side of the bed.

She curled up instantly, burrowing into the pillow. You stood there for a moment, looking down at her. The bed still smelled faintly of your laundry detergent, but now there was the smell of her too—rain and alcohol and that distinct floral scent.

You grabbed a spare pillow and a blanket from the closet and headed back to the living room. The couch was lumpy, but it would do. You lay down, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the rain and the soft, rhythmic sound of Sohyun breathing from the other room.

Tomorrow would be awkward. You knew that. She’d wake up, realize where she was, likely be horrified that her friend had delivered her to your door like a package. She’d put her walls back up. She’d probably ignore you on campus again.

But as you closed your eyes, a strange thought settled over you. Xinyu was right. Sohyun had a choice. And she’d chosen you. Even in her drunken haze, she’d chosen your apartment over her friends.

You didn't know what it meant. You didn't know if it changed anything. But for the first time since this strange, fractured relationship began, you felt like maybe, just maybe, there was a crack in the glass. A real one. And you weren't ready to give up on finding out what lay on the other side just yet.

Morning light sliced through the thin gaps in your blinds, harsh and unforgiving, rousing you from a sleep that had been more like a series of long blinks than actual rest. Your neck was a stiff, knotted column of pain from sleeping on the couch, and your mouth tasted like stale air. You sat up, groaning as your spine popped in protest. The apartment was quiet, save for the low hum of the refrigerator and the faint, rhythmic breathing coming from the bedroom.

Sohyun was still in there.

The events of the night before flooded back—Xinyu’s sharp gaze, the weight of Sohyun against your shoulder, the smell of rain and expensive perfume saturating your small living space. It felt surreal, like a fever dream that had spilled over into reality. You rubbed your face, trying to scrub away the grogginess. You needed coffee. You needed a lot of coffee.

You shuffled to the kitchenette, the floorboards cold under your bare feet. You were filling the kettle when a sharp knock rattled the doorframe. It wasn't the hesitant buzz of the intercom, but a solid, authoritative knock. You knew who it was before you even reached for the handle.

You pulled the door open to find Xinyu standing there, looking remarkably put-together considering the state she was in last night. She held a tray carrier with two iced coffees and a paper bag that smelled of sugar and burnt beans. She was wearing a large, oversized trench coat over a hoodie, her hair tied back in a sleek, no-nonsense ponytail.

"Morning, sunshine," she said, breezing past you without waiting for an invitation. "I brought supplies. I figured you’d be operating on about three percent brain function right now."

"Thanks," you managed, closing the door behind her. "You weren't wrong."

"I usually aren't." She set the coffee down on your small table and leaned against the counter, eyeing the closed bedroom door. "Sleeping Beauty still dead to the world?"

"Yeah. Haven't checked in a bit, but she hasn't moved."

Xinyu nodded, crossing her arms. "Good. Let her sleep. God knows she needs it." She popped the lid off one of the coffees and took a sip, her eyes scanning your apartment again with that same critical curiosity from last night. "So," she started, her tone casual but laced with an undercurrent of interrogation. "You survived the night. She didn't choke on her own vomit. You didn't try anything creepy. I'd say that's a win for you."

You felt a flush creep up your neck. "I wasn't going to try anything. She was wasted, Xinyu."

"I know, I know." She waved a hand dismissively. "Just messing with you. You're too earnest for that. It’s almost nauseating." She cracked a faint smile, taking the sting out of the words. "But seriously. Sohyun doesn't do this. She doesn't do the 'damsel in distress' routine. She doesn't let people see her messy."

"Well, she was pretty messy last night," you noted, leaning back against the opposite counter. The kettle began to whistle, and you turned it off, the sudden silence amplifying the proximity between you.

"That's the thing," Xinyu said, her voice dropping an octave. "For her to end up here, with you… she trusts you. Or she's desperate. Maybe both." She studied you over the rim of her cup. "She’s been talking about you, you know. Vague stuff. 'That freshman.' 'The quiet one.' I didn't put it together until I saw her practically drooling on your shoulder last night."

You looked down at your coffee, stirring it with a straw to avoid her gaze. "She talks about me?"

"In her own way. She complains about you. How you look at her. How you're always there." Xinyu swirled her cup. "It’s funny. She pretends it annoys her, but I think she likes it. She likes that you're… constant. The rest of us, we're all climbing over each other to be the best, the smartest, the loudest. You’re just there. Static. It probably grounds her."

The compliment, if it was one, felt heavy. You opened your mouth to respond, but a sound from the bedroom cut you off. A low, miserable groan, followed by the unmistakable retch of someone waking up with their stomach in revolt.

"Speak of the devil," Xinyu sighed, setting her coffee down. "Showtime."

You were already moving, bypassing Xinyu and heading for the bedroom. You pushed the door open to find Sohyun sitting up in your bed, her hand over her mouth, her skin the color of parchment paper. Her hair was a wild halo around her head, and her eyes were squeezed shut in pain.

"Sohyun?"

She heard you, or maybe she just sensed the movement. She bolted.

She scrambled out of the bed, nearly tripping over her own boots, and stumbled toward the ensuite bathroom attached to your room. You followed right behind her. She made it to the toilet just in time, collapsing to her knees and heaving.

It was visceral and ugly. The sound echoed in the small tile space, sharp and wet. You didn't hesitate; you stepped in, grabbing her hair and holding it back from her face with one hand while you rubbed her back with the other. Her shoulders shook under your touch, her body wracked by the force of her illness.

"Fuck… I'm sorry," she gasped between retches, her voice raspy and broken. "I drank… too much."

"It's all good," you murmured, keeping your voice low and steady. "Just let it all out. You're okay."

You didn't look away. It wasn't pretty, but there was something strangely intimate about it, about being the one person here to see her at her absolute lowest and not flinch. She continued for a moment, long agonizing seconds where she purged the toxins from the night before. You kept circling her back, feeling the knob of her spine, the heat radiating off her skin.

Xinyu appeared in the doorway, leaning against the jam, her arms crossed over her chest. She watched the scene with a mixture of disgust and amusement, rolling her eyes so hard you thought they might get stuck.

"Don't you fucking dare pass out again, alright?" Xinyu said, her voice cutting through the sound of Sohyun's hacking. "You are fucking heavy to carry. I’m not doing that twice in one weekend."

Sohyun let out a weak, breathless laugh, resting her forehead against the cool porcelain of the toilet seat. "Fine… fine…" She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, taking a deep, shuddering breath. "I think… I think I'm done."

She sat back on her heels, turning to look at you. Her eyes were red-rimmed and watery, her makeup smudged, but she was still undeniably Sohyun. She looked at your hand on her shoulder, then up at your face. For a second, the arrogant senior was gone, replaced by something softer, something grateful.

"Thanks," she whispered.

"You need water," you said. "And a toothbrush. I can find an extra one."

"Please," she groaned, trying to stand up. Her legs wobbled, and you caught her arm, steadying her.

"Easy does it," you said, guiding her back toward the bed. "Sit. I'll be right back."

You left her sitting on the edge of the mattress, looking like a wilted flower, and went back into the kitchen where Xinyu was already waiting. She had opened the paper bag and was pulling out a couple of pastry boxes.

"She alive?" Xinyu asked, taking a bite of a donut.

"Barely. She's toughing it out."

Xinyu chewed thoughtfully, watching you fill a glass of water from the filter. "You're good at that," she observed.

"Good at what?"

"Taking care of her. Most guys would be freaking out, or they'd be turned off by the whole… puke thing." She gestured vaguely toward the bathroom. "You just… jumped in. Like it was nothing."

"It's not nothing," you said, grabbing a spare toothbrush from the cabinet. "She needed help."

"Yeah, well." Xinyu dusted sugar off her fingers. "Don't get used to it. She's usually a nightmare when she's hungover. She gets snappy. She says mean things she doesn't mean." She fixed you with a sharp look. "Don't take it personally if she bites your head off in ten minutes."

"Noted."

You took the water and the toothbrush back to Sohyun. She accepted them with a mumbled thanks, disappearing into the bathroom to brush her teeth and splash water on her face. When she emerged, she looked marginally more human. She had washed her face, removing the smudged makeup, leaving her skin bare and pale. She had re-tied her hair into a loose knot.

She sat back down on the bed, looking around the room. Her eyes landed on you, then flicked to the doorway where Xinyu was lingering.

"Am I… interrupting?" Sohyun asked, her voice still rough but regaining a bit of its usual edge.

"Nope," Xinyu said, breezing into the room and perching on the edge of your dresser. "Just enjoying the show. It's not every day I see Campus Queen Sohyun looking like a drowned rat."

Sohyun shot her a glare, but it lacked her usual venom. "Shut up, Xinyu. If you didn't want to deal with it, you shouldn't have dragged me here."

"I dragged you here because you were begging for it," Xinyu countered smoothly. "You were like a broken record. 'Take me to him. Take me to him.' It was pathetic."

You felt your ears heat up. You looked at Sohyun, trying to gauge her reaction. She didn't deny it. She just looked down at her hands, picking at a loose thread on the blanket.

"I was drunk," she muttered.

"You were honest," Xinyu corrected. "There's a difference."

The room fell into a heavy silence. The tension in the air was thick, a three-way knot of secrets and hangovers and unspoken things. Sohyun shifted on the bed, clearly uncomfortable. She wasn't used to being the one on the back foot, the one being exposed.

"So," Xinyu said, clapping her hands together and breaking the moment. "Should I leave or something? Let you two lovebirds have your awkward post-drink cuddle?"

Sohyun looked up, her expression clearing. She let out a short, dry laugh. "Hey, don't be like that. Spend some time with him too, you know. He's a great guy."

She looked at you when she said it, her eyes locking onto yours. There was a sincerity there that you hadn't expected. It wasn't a performance for Xinyu. She meant it.

Xinyu rolled her eyes, but a small smile played on her lips. "Yeah, yeah. I can tell. He brought me coffee." She looked at you. "Alright. I'll stay. But only if you feed me. I'm starving."

You felt a wave of relief. You didn't want to be alone with Sohyun yet—not while she was like this. Having Xinyu there acted as a buffer, a bridge between your worlds.

"I can order delivery," you offered. "Fried chicken? Tteokbokki?"

Sohyun's stomach visibly lurched at the mention of spicy food, but Xinyu nodded enthusiastically. "Yes. And grilled meat. Lots of it. We need to soak up the alcohol."

You spent the next twenty minutes scrolling through delivery apps on your phone while Sohyun slowly rehydrated and Xinyu paced around the small apartment, commenting on your lack of decoration and your "cozy" vibe. It felt domestic in a way you never could have imagined. You, a freshman, sitting in your apartment with two of the most senior, admired girls on campus, waiting for fried chicken.

You stood up to go check the hallway for the delivery driver, but as you neared the front door, you heard Xinyu’s voice from the balcony. You hadn't even realized she’d stepped out there.

You moved closer, intending to tell her the food was here, but her tone stopped you cold. It wasn't the bored, sarcastic drawl she used with you. It was low, vibrating with a fury that made the hair on your arms stand up.

"You fucking bitch," she hissed into the phone. "How long are you gonna fucking cheat on me? Do you think I'm stupid?"

You froze. You shouldn't be listening. This was private. But you couldn't move.

"I saw the messages, Han. Don't lie to me. You think just because she's that rival from Seoul Uni, you can just—" She cut off with a growl of frustration. "You're pathetic. You're actually pathetic. I'm done. I am so fucking done."

She ended the call with a violent tap of her thumb. You heard the clatter of the phone hitting the railing of the balcony. You hesitated for a second, debating retreating, pretending you hadn't heard a thing. But then you heard a sharp intake of breath, followed by the distinct click of a lighter.

You walked out onto the balcony.

Xinyu was standing with her back to you, one hand braced on the railing, the other bringing a sleek, white device to her lips. An electronic cigarette. She inhaled deeply, holding the vapor in her chest before exhaling a thick, sweet-smelling cloud into the damp morning air.

"A-are you sure that's healthy?" you asked, your voice sounding loud in the quiet morning.

She didn't jump. She didn't even turn around. She just took another drag, her shoulders tense. "Don't bother me right now," she snapped, her voice tight. "I'm fucking stressed out."

You stood there for a moment, watching the way the mist curled around her silhouette. You thought about what she had said—Han. You knew the name. He was a senior too, a guy in the business school who always seemed to have everything together. Apparently not.

"Well," you said slowly, stepping up beside her but keeping a respectful distance. "The food is here. I guess we should eat."

Xinyu lowered the device, turning to look at you. Her eyes were rimmed with red, whether from anger or lack of sleep you couldn't tell. She looked at you for a long moment, really looked at you, as if seeing you for the first time. Then, her expression cracked. The anger melted away, replaced by a weary, fragile amusement.

"You heard," she stated. It wasn't a question.

"Heard," you confirmed softly.

"Great." She sighed, dropping the vape into her small purse. "Now you know my tragic backstory. I'm dating a lying piece of shit who thinks with his dick."

"He sounds like an idiot," you said bluntly.

Xinyu let out a short, surprised laugh. "He is. The biggest kind." She pushed off the railing, smoothing down her coat. "But enough about that asshole. You said chicken? Let's go eat."

You walked back inside together, the air between you shifting. She didn't seem like the untouchable "Goddess" anymore. She just seemed like a girl who had been kicked in the teeth.

In the living room, Sohyun had moved from the bed to the couch. She was sitting cross-legged, scrolling through your TV list, looking for something to watch. She looked up as you and Xinyu entered with the bags of food. Her eyes darted between the two of you, narrowing slightly at Xinyu's flushed face and your close proximity.

"What took so long?" Sohyun asked, her tone sharp. "Did you get lost?"

"Just catching up," Xinyu said breezily, dropping onto the couch opposite Sohyun. "Don't worry your pretty little head about it."

You began unpacking the food—boxes of golden fried chicken, sizzling tteokbokki thick with rice cakes and fish cakes, and a platter of grilled pork belly. The smell instantly filled the room, rich and savory, cutting through the lingering scent of stale alcohol. Sohyun perked up immediately, her stomach apparently forgiving her for the earlier abuse.

"Oh my god," she groaned, reaching for a piece of chicken. "I need this."

You sat down on the floor, leaning back against the couch near Sohyun's legs. Xinyu sat on the other side, grabbing a pair of metal chopsticks. For a while, the only sounds were the clinking of chopsticks and the hum of the TV. You put on a random action movie, something with explosions and car chases that required zero brainpower.

As you ate, the atmosphere began to thaw. The tension from the morning, from Xinyu's phone call, from Sohyun's hangover, began to dissolve into the rhythm of food and comfort.

Then, Xinyu spoke. She set her chopsticks down with a sharp snap.

"So," she said, her voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of steel. "Han cheated on me."

Sohyun froze, a piece of pork halfway to her mouth. She slowly lowered it, her eyes widening. "What?"

"You heard me. With that slut from Seoul Uni. The one he debated against last month." Xinyu grabbed a can of soda, cracking it open. "He thinks I don't know. He thinks I'm oblivious."

Sohyun's face transformed instantly. The grogginess, the hunger, the reserve—it all vanished, replaced by a cold, lethal fury. "That fucker," she whispered. "That absolute piece of shit."

"He doesn't deserve you," Sohyun said, her voice rising. "He never did. I told you, Xinyu. I told you he was arrogant."

"I know," Xinyu sighed, rubbing her temples. "I know. I just… wanted it to work. You know? For once, I wanted to be the one who had the stupid, normal relationship."

You sat quietly, chewing on a piece of tteokbokki. You felt like an intruder, witnessing a private moment between best friends. You shifted slightly, trying to make yourself smaller, less noticeable.

Sohyun seemed to sense your retreat. She looked down at you, then back at Xinyu. Her eyes narrowed again, this time with a different kind of intensity. She watched the way Xinyu was leaning toward you, the way she had confided in you just minutes ago on the balcony.

"You okay?" Sohyun asked Xinyu, but her eyes flicked to you.

"I will be," Xinyu said. She looked at you, a sly, thoughtful look entering her eyes. She picked up her chopsticks again, tapping them against her lip. "Actually. I'm feeling a bit better now."

"Good," Sohyun said, tearing into a chicken wing with a little too much force. "Because he's trash. Forget him."

"I will," Xinyu agreed. She turned her gaze fully onto you. It was heavy, loaded. "Hey. You. Move up here."

You blinked, pointing to yourself. "Me?"

"Yes, you. Come sit on the couch. My neck hurts looking down at you."

You hesitated, glancing at Sohyun. Sohyun was staring at Xinyu, her expression unreadable, but you could feel the waves of tension rolling off her. She didn't say anything, though. She just watched.

You stood up and moved to the cushion between Xinyu and the armrest. It was a tight fit. Xinyu immediately shifted, closing the distance. She didn't leave an inch of space between you. Her thigh pressed against yours, warm and firm.

"See?" Xinyu said, leaning back and draping her arm casually along the back of the couch behind you. Her fingers brushed your shoulder. "Much better."

You stiffened slightly. You were acutely aware of her scent—sharp and floral, different from Sohyun's. You were acutely aware of Sohyun sitting on your other side, her presence like a furnace.

"Xinyu," Sohyun warned, her voice low.

"What?" Xinyu asked innocently, though her eyes glinted with mischief. "I'm just getting comfortable. We're having a bonding moment, aren't we?" She looked at you, tilting her head so her face was inches from yours. "Right?"

"Uh, sure?" you managed.

Xinyu smiled. It wasn't her usual sarcastic smirk. It was something softer, something dangerous. She leaned her head onto your shoulder, her hair tickling your neck. You froze. Your heart hammered against your ribs. This was Xinyu. The Ice Queen. The girl you had admired from afar for months. And she was currently using you as a pillow.

She shifted slightly, nuzzling into your shirt. "You're warm," she murmured. "It's nice."

You didn't know what to do with your hands. You kept them in your lap, gripping your knees like a lifeline.

"Am I not pretty?" Xinyu asked suddenly.

The question came out of nowhere, soft and vulnerable. She lifted her head slightly, turning her face up toward yours. Her eyes were searching, looking for cracks in your composure.

You glanced at Sohyun. She had stopped eating. She was watching the two of you with a look that was a mix of shock and something else. Something dark and possessive. Her jaw was clenched tight.

"What?" you asked, confused. "What do you mean?"

Xinyu's gaze never left yours. "Han. He cheated on me. Was I not pretty enough? Was I not… enough?"

The question broke your heart a little. It was such a human question, stripped of all her arrogance and armor.

You looked at her—at the sharp elegance of her jawline, the high cheekbones, the intelligence burning in her eyes even now. "What do you mean," you said, your voice firm. "You are pretty. You're gorgeous. That guy… your boyfriend… he must be dumb to cheat on someone like you."

You said it with total conviction. Because it was true.

Xinyu’s breath hitched—a tiny, sharp intake of air. Her eyes widened slightly, and a faint blush dusted her cheeks. She hadn't expected such a direct, unguarded response. She chuckled, a low, rich sound that vibrated against your shoulder.

"You're sweet," she whispered. "Too sweet."

She didn't move away. If anything, she pressed closer. Her hand, which had been resting on the back of the couch, slid down. Her fingers traced the line of your shoulder blade, slow and deliberate. It was a teasing touch. A testing touch.

You felt a jolt of electricity run through you. This was wrong. Sohyun was right there. Sohyun, the girl you had been obsessed with for years, the girl who was currently sitting three feet away, watching her best friend feel you up.

You risked a glance at Sohyun.

She was staring straight ahead at the TV screen, but she wasn't watching it. Her hand was gripping her soda can so hard her knuckles were white. She looked… furious. But underneath the fury, you saw something else. She looked neglected.

She looked at the way Xinyu was leaning into you, the way your shoulders were touching, the way Xinyu was looking at you with those hungry, appreciative eyes. Sohyun, who was used to being the center of attention, the one in control, was suddenly on the outside looking in.

And you saw it—the curiosity. The strange, dangerous spark in her eyes. She wasn't just angry that Xinyu was invading her space. She was interested. She was watching to see what you would do. She was watching to see if you would push Xinyu away, or if you would lean into it.

Xinyu’s fingers moved higher, brushing the back of your neck. She leaned in closer, her lips grazing the shell of your ear.

"I think you're lying," she whispered, her voice hot and teasing. "I think you've had a crush on me for months. Just like you have on Sohyun."

The air left the room. Your heart stopped.

Xinyu pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, a smirk playing on her lips. She knew. Of course she knew. She saw everything. She saw the way you looked at both of them on campus, the way you lingered near their table in the library.

"Am I wrong?" she challenged softly.

You couldn't speak. You couldn't breathe. You were trapped between the two most important women in your world, and the ground was shifting beneath your feet.

From your other side, Sohyun shifted. She turned on the couch, pulling one leg up underneath her. She looked at Xinyu, then at you. The anger was gone, replaced by a cool, calculated gaze.

"He's not lying," Sohyun said, her voice smooth and low. "He's nice. He wouldn't lie."

Xinyu laughed, the sound vibrating through your arm. "Nice. There's that word again." She looked at Sohyun, a challenge in her eyes. "Maybe nice isn't what I need right now, Sohyun. Maybe I need someone who looks at me like I'm the only person in the room. Like he looks at you."

Sohyun’s eyes darkened. She leaned forward, invading your space from the other side. Her hand came out, resting on your knee. It was a possessive gesture. A warning.

"He looks at you because you're throwing yourself at him," Sohyun countered, her voice sharp. "He's a guy, Xinyu. We're tactile creatures. Don't read too much into it."

"Am I throwing myself at him?" Xinyu mused, her fingers tracing the hem of your collar. "Or am I just appreciating what's right in front of me? Something you've been taking for granted for weeks, I might add."

The tension in the room was no longer just awkward. It was thick. It was sexual. It was a charged, volatile current flowing between the three of you. You felt like a piece of meat being claimed by two predators, but God help you, you didn't want to leave.

Sohyun’s hand tightened on your knee. She looked at Xinyu, and for a second, you saw something pass between them. An understanding. A dare.

"You're playing a dangerous game, Xinyu," Sohyun said quietly.

"I'm just getting started," Xinyu replied.

She turned back to you, her eyes dropping to your lips. "So, tell me the truth. If I kissed you right now… what would you do?"

Your pulse hammered in your throat. You looked at Sohyun, terrified, expecting her to explode. But she didn't. She just watched, her own lips parting slightly, her breathing hitching in a way that had nothing to do with hangover nausea.

She was waiting. She was waiting to see if you would betray her. Or maybe… maybe she was waiting to see if you would handle this.

You swallowed hard, your voice barely a whisper. "I… I wouldn't stop you."

Xinyu’s smile widened, triumphant and hungry. She leaned in, slow and deliberate, giving you every chance to pull away. You could feel Sohyun’s gaze burning a hole in the side of your face, her hand a heavy weight on your leg.

"Good answer," Xinyu breathed.

And then, the door buzzer rang.

The sound was so jarring, so loud in the heavy silence, that you all jumped. Xinyu pulled back, the spell broken. Sohyun snatched her hand back from your knee as if she’d been burned.

"What the hell is that?" Sohyun snapped, her voice regaining its usual bite.

"Probably… the delivery guy forgot something?" you guessed, your heart still racing a mile a minute.

You stood up, your legs shaky. "I'll get it."

As you walked to the door, you could feel the eyes of both women on your back. The air behind you was electric, charged with unanswered questions and dangerous possibilities. You grabbed the handle, taking a deep breath to compose yourself before opening the door.

Whatever was happening between the three of you, it was far from over. And as you stepped into the hallway to deal with the mundane reality of a missing soda, you knew that your life had just shifted onto a trajectory you never could have predicted. The line between friend, crush, and something else entirely had been blurred. And Sohyun, for the first time, wasn't the only one holding the eraser.

The buzz from the intercom wasn't the delivery driver. It was the sound of your life imploding.

You pressed the button, the static crackling through the speaker. "Hello?"

"Open the fucking door," a voice snarled, distorted by the cheap speaker but unmistakable. It was Han.

You froze. Your stomach, already queasy from the rich food and the lingering hangover tension, dropped into your shoes. Han. Xinyu’s ex. The guy who had been cheating on her with the rival from Seoul Uni. He was the last person on earth who should be here.

"Just a second," you stammered, your finger hovering over the 'deny' button. But before you could press it, the heavy thud of a fist pounding against the wood from the hallway vibrated through the floor. He was already in the building. Someone must have let him in, or he’d tailgated a resident.

You opened the door.

Han looked worse than he sounded. His usually polished, business-casual appearance was disheveled—his shirt untucked, his hair a mess, and his eyes bloodshot and wild. He smelled like cheap whiskey and stale cigarettes. He shoved past you the moment the latch clicked, his shoulder slamming into your chest with enough force to knock you back a step.

"Where is she?" Han shouted, his voice bouncing off the walls of your small living room. "Xinyu! Get the fuck out here!"

The atmosphere in the room, previously charged with a thick, sexual anticipation, curdled instantly into something sharp and violent. Sohyun was on her feet in a heartbeat, moving with a predatory grace that made the hair on your arms stand up. Xinyu stood up more slowly, her face draining of color, then flushing a dark, angry red.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Xinyu demanded, her voice shaking not with fear, but with rage. "You have some nerve showing your face after—"

"Shut up!" Han screamed, cutting her off. He paced the center of the room, gesturing wildly. "I saw you. I saw you leaving the club with him. With this guy?" He pointed a trembling finger at you, his lip curling in disgust. "This nobody freshman? You left me to go fuck this loser?"

He was spiraling. You could see it in the way his eyes darted around the room, looking for something to break. He wasn't here to talk. He was here to lash out, to punish Xinyu for injuring his ego.

"Get out, Han," Sohyun said, stepping between Han and Xinyu. Her voice was ice cold, but you saw the way her hands were clenched into fists at her sides. "You’re drunk. You’re making a scene."

"I'm making a scene?" Han laughed, a high, ugly sound. "My girlfriend runs off in the middle of the night to fuck a kid, and I'm making a scene?" He lunged forward, grabbing Sohyun’s arm to shove her aside. "Move, bitch. I'm taking Xinyu home."

Sohyun stumbled but recovered instantly, slapping his hand away. "Don't touch me."

"Or what?" Han turned his fury on her. He was bigger than both of them, a solid wall of muscle and rage. "You think you're tough? You think you're better than me?"

He shoved Sohyun again, harder this time. She fell back onto the couch, breathless.

"Hey!" you shouted, stepping forward. You didn't think. You just moved. "Don't touch her."

Han spun around, his eyes locking onto yours. They were filled with a terrifying, jealous insanity. "Stay out of this, you little punk. This doesn't concern you."

"She told you to leave," you said, surprised by the steadiness of your own voice. "You need to go."

Han’s face twisted. He lunged at you.

It happened fast. Han was a football player back in high school, and he moved with the momentum of a freight train. He tackled you, driving you backward into the hallway wall. The air left your lungs in a rush as your back slammed against the drywall. Pictures rattled on the hooks.

"You think you can take my girl?" Han spat, grabbing you by the collar of your shirt. He slammed you against the wall again, your head cracking against the plaster. Stars exploded in your vision. "I'll fucking kill you."

"Get off him!" Xinyu screamed.

You could hear Sohyun shouting too, but your focus was narrowed down to the face in front of you. Han’s fist was drawn back, ready to connect with your jaw. You brought your arms up to block your face, bracing for the impact.

But the blow never came.

Sohyun threw herself at Han’s back, wrapping her arms around his neck in a chokehold, trying to drag him off you. "Get off him! Han, stop it!"

Han roared, bucking his hips violently. He shook Sohyun off like she was a fly. She stumbled backward, crashing into the side table and sending a lamp crashing to the floor.

"Sohyun!" you cried out.

That moment of distraction was all Han needed. He grabbed a handful of your hair, twisting your head to the side, and slammed his fist into your ribs.

Pain exploded, sharp and blinding. You gasped, your knees buckling. You slid down the wall, clutching your side.

"Stop it! Please stop!" Xinyu was crying now, tears streaming down her face. She rushed forward, grabbing Han’s arm and trying to pull him away from you. "Han, you're hurting him! Stop!"

He rounded on her, his eyes wild. He didn't see Xinyu. He saw a target. He saw the reason he was humiliated.

"You fucking slut," he hissed.

He backhanded her.

The sound was wet and heavy. Xinyu’s head snapped to the side, her body whipping around with the force of the blow. She crumpled to the floor, silent, her hand coming up to her swelling cheek.

The room went dead silent.

For a second, you couldn't process what you were seeing. Then, the red haze descended. It didn't matter that he was bigger. It didn't matter that he could break you in half. He had hit her.

You surged up from the floor, ignoring the screaming protest from your ribs. You tackled Han around the waist, driving him into the kitchenette counter. The impact knocked the breath out of him, and you heard the wind rush out of his lungs.

You weren't a fighter. You had no technique. You just threw yourself at him, fueled by adrenaline and pure, unfiltered rage. You grabbed his shoulders, shoving him back, but he recovered quickly. He shoved you hard, sending you staggering backward into the sharp corner of the open dishwasher door. It caught you right in the thigh, tearing a line of fire through your muscle, but you barely felt it.

Han came at you again, his hands going for your throat. You ducked, dodging a clumsy right hook, and tackled him again. This time, you both went down. You hit the floor hard, Han on top of you, his hands closing around your throat.

His grip was iron-tight. You clawed at his wrists, gasping for air, your vision starting to spot. He was heavy, crushing the breath out of you. You bucked your hips, trying to dislodge him, but he was too heavy.

You were going to pass out. You were going to die here, on your living room floor, while the two girls you loved watched.

Then, something heavy collided with Han’s side.

So hyun had launched herself at him again, but this time she wasn't trying to pull him off. She was attacking him. She was clawing at his face, her fingernails raking deep gouges down his cheek.

"Get off him!" she screamed, her voice raw.

Han howled in pain, letting go of your throat to bat her away. You sucked in a ragged, desperate breath, choking on the air. You saw Han raising his hand to hit Sohyun, his face contorted in fury.

"Hey!"

This shout wasn't from a woman.

It was Xinyu.

She was standing by the kitchen counter, clutching one of your cast-iron skillets in both hands. Her face was pale, her lip bleeding, but her eyes were blazing with a cold, terrifying resolve.

"Get the fuck out of my apartment," Xinyu said, her voice low and trembling. "Or I swear to god, I will split your skull open."

Han looked at her, then at the skillet. He hesitated, the adrenaline fading just enough for logic to seep back in. He touched the scratches on his cheek, his fingers coming away bloody. He looked at the three of you—Sohyun on the floor, her chest heaving; you coughing and wheezing on the ground; Xinyu standing over him like an avenging angel with a weapon.

"Fucking psychos," Han spat, wiping his bloody face on his sleeve. He scrambled to his feet, backing toward the door. "You're all crazy. Every single one of you."

He kicked the doorframe on his way out, sending a final shower of dust raining down, and then he was gone. The heavy slam of the front door echoed like a gunshot.

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. You lay on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, your chest burning. You could hear Sohyun crying softly, a sound you had never heard her make before. It was broken, terrified.

You sat up slowly, your body protesting every movement. Your ribs throbbed with every breath, a sharp, hot pain. Your head was swimming. You looked over at Sohyun.

She was sitting against the wall, her knees pulled up to her chest, rocking back and forth. She was looking at her hands, shaking violently. She looked… small.

"Sohyun?" you rasped. You started to crawl toward her, needing to be near her, needing to know she was okay.

She flinched when you reached out to touch her arm. She flinched like she was scared of you.

You froze. The rejection hit you harder than Han's fist. "Sohyun… it's me. It's over."

She looked up then, and the look in her eyes shattered you. It wasn't just fear. It was horror. She was looking at your bruises, the scrapes on your knuckles, the way you were wheezing. She was looking at the damage she had been powerless to prevent.

"I… I couldn't…" she whispered, tears streaming down her face. "I tried to stop him. I tried. But I couldn't. I was too weak."

"Sohyun, no," you said, reaching for her again. This time she let you pull her into your arms. She buried her face in your neck, and you could feel her hot tears soaking into your shirt. "You distracted him. You saved me. If you hadn't jumped on him when you did…"

"I was useless," she sobbed. "He could have killed you. And I just… I just watched."

"Hey."

Xinyu’s voice cut through Sohyun’s breakdown. It was steady, firm.

Xinyu knelt beside you two. She dropped the skillet on the floor with a heavy clang and reached out, gently taking Sohyun’s face in her hands.

"Look at me," Xinyu commanded.

Sohyun looked up, her eyes red and swollen.

"You're not weak," Xinyu said, her voice fierce. "You're the strongest person I know. But you were scared. That's allowed. We were all scared."

Xinyu turned her attention to you. Her eyes scanned your face, lingering on the bruise forming on your jaw and the scrapes on your neck. Her expression softened, the hard edge melting away into a devastating tenderness.

"You," she whispered. She touched your cheek, her fingers light as a feather. "You idiot. You stood up to him."

"He was going to hurt you," you said simply.

Xinyu let out a shaky breath. She leaned forward and pressed her forehead against yours. For a moment, you just breathed together, the shared adrenaline fading into something else.

"Let me see," she said, pulling back to inspect you. "Lift your arms."

You obliged, wincing as she probed your ribs. Her touch was clinical but careful.

"Just bruised, I think," she murmured. "Nothing feels broken." Her hands moved down to your leg, where you had slammed into the dishwasher. You were bleeding there, a thin line of blood welling up through the tear in your pants. "You're going to need stitches for this one."

"I'll be fine," you said. "I'm just glad he's gone."

Xinyu didn't smile. She stood up abruptly. " Bathroom. Now. We need to clean this up."

She helped you stand, supporting your weight as you hobbled toward the bathroom. Sohyun remained on the floor, watching you go. She hadn't moved. She hadn't stopped shaking.

In the bathroom, Xinyu sat you down on the edge of the tub and rummaged through your cabinet. She found the first aid kit—a small plastic box with bandaids and antiseptic.

"This is going to sting," she warned, tearing open an alcohol wipe.

She cleaned the cut on your leg with efficient movements. Her hands were steady, but you could see the tremor in her shoulders. She was still coming down from the adrenaline.

"You were amazing," you said softly, watching her face. "With the skillet. You saved us."

"I should have done it sooner," she said, not looking at you. "I shouldn't have let it get that far."

"It's not your fault he's crazy."

Xinyu finished bandaging your leg and moved to your face. She cleaned the scrape on your cheek, her thumb brushing gently over your jawbone. Her touch lingered, tracing the line of your bone.

"You were so brave," she whispered. She looked into your eyes, and the raw admiration there made your chest tight. "I've never seen anything like that. No one has ever… no one has ever fought for me like that."

She leaned in closer. Her body was pressed against your legs, her warmth seeping into you. You could smell her perfume, mixed with the metallic tang of fear and the lingering scent of your apartment.

"Xinyu…" you started.

She cut you off by pressing her lips to yours.

It wasn't like the kiss with Sohyun. It wasn't slow or exploring. It was desperate. It was a thank you and an apology and a confession all at once. Her lips were soft and demanding, tasting slightly of salt from her tears. She kissed you like she was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, like she needed to anchor herself to you.

You melted into it, ignoring the pain in your ribs. Your hand came up to cup the back of her neck, tangling in her ponytail. She sighed against your mouth, a low, vibrating sound that went straight to your core.

She pulled back slightly, her forehead resting against yours again. Her eyes were wet, but they were burning with an intensity that made your breath hitch.

"I was so scared," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I was so scared he was going to hurt you. And I felt… I felt so safe when you stepped in front of me. Like nothing in the world could touch me."

She grabbed your hand, guiding it. She placed your palm flat against her chest, right over her heart. You could feel it hammering against her ribs, a frantic, bird-like rhythm.

"Feel that?" she asked. "That's what you do to me."

You looked at her, really looked at her. The swelling bruise on her cheek where Han had hit her made your blood boil all over again, but it also made you want to wrap her up and hide her from the world.

"You're safe now," you said. "I won't let him near you again."

Xinyu let out a shaky laugh. She kissed you again, quick and hard. Then she grabbed your hand and pulled it downward.

She guided your hand between her thighs, pressing your palm against the heat radiating through her jeans. The air in the bathroom instantly grew thick, heavy with a sudden, electric tension.

"Do you feel that?" she whispered, her eyes locking onto yours. "I'm so wet right now. It's sick, isn't it? Adrenaline makes me crazy."

You swallowed hard, your fingers twitching against the denim. You could feel the heat of her, the undeniable pressure of her body responding to the danger, to the violence, to you. It was a primal, raw reaction.

"Xinyu," you breathed. "Sohyun is outside."

"I know," Xinyu said, not moving your hand. If anything, she pressed it tighter against herself. "Let her watch."

You looked past Xinyu, toward the open bathroom door.

Sohyun was standing there.

She had gotten up from the floor. She was leaning against the doorframe, her arms wrapped around herself. She looked pale, her eyes wide and fixed on the two of you.

She looked at where your hand was, pressed between Xinyu's legs. She looked at the way Xinyu was leaning into you, the possessive, hungry way she was holding your gaze.

Sohyun’s reaction wasn't what you expected. She didn't look angry. She didn't look disgusted.

She looked terrified.

She looked like she was realizing that while she had been paralyzed by fear, Xinyu had been taking everything she wanted. While Sohyun was frozen, Xinyu had been staking her claim.

"Are you… are you okay?" Sohyun asked, her voice barely a whisper. She was talking to you, but her eyes were glued to your hand on Xinyu.

You gently pulled your hand away from Xinyu, though it pained you to do so. You turned fully toward Sohyun.

"I'm fine," you said, giving her a reassuring smile. You winced as the motion pulled at your bruised ribs. "Nothing permanent. I'll live."

Sohyun stared at you. She looked at the bruises blooming on your skin, the bandage on your leg, the way your shirt was torn at the collar. And she saw the way Xinyu was touching you, the way she had just kissed you.

She saw that she might be losing you.

It was written all over her face—a dawning, horrific realization. She had taken you for granted. She had used your devotion, your obsession, as a safety net, assuming you would always be there waiting in the wings. But now, standing in the wreckage of your apartment, seeing you through Xinyu's eyes, she saw what she had almost let slip through her fingers.

She saw that you weren't just a quiet freshman. You were the person who had almost died protecting her best friend. You were the person who made Xinyu feel safe.

Xinyu turned to look at Sohyun. There was no malice in her expression, just a quiet, possessive triumph. She wrapped her arm around your waist, resting her head on your uninjured shoulder.

"He's amazing, isn't he?" Xinyu said softly.

Sohyun didn't answer. She just took a step into the room. Then another. She walked until she was standing right in front of you. She reached out, her hand hovering in the air for a moment before she gently touched the bruise on your jaw.

Her fingers were cold, trembling.

"I was so scared," Sohyun whispered, echoing Xinyu’s words but with an entirely different weight. "I was so scared that he was going to kill you. That I was going to watch you die."

She looked up at you, her eyes swimming with tears. "I've never been that scared in my life. I felt… helpless. And I hate feeling helpless."

She leaned in, her forehead resting against yours, just inches from where Xinyu was still resting. For a moment, the three of you were tangled together, a web of trauma and adrenaline and shifting loyalties.

"You're not going to lose me," you whispered, looking at Sohyun, then at Xinyu. "I'm right here."

Sohyun pulled back slightly. She looked at Xinyu, a silent plea passing between them. Xinyu sighed, but she loosened her grip on you, shifting slightly to the side to make room.

Sohyun stepped into that space. She didn't kiss you. Instead, she wrapped her arms around your neck and buried her face in your shoulder, holding you so tight it hurt your ribs, but you didn't care. You held her back, one hand on her waist, the other reaching out blindly until you found Xinyu’s hand. You grabbed it, squeezing tight.

Xinyu squeezed back.

The three of you stood there in the tiny bathroom, the smell of antiseptic and fear hanging in the air, but something else was blooming underneath it. Something dangerous and new.

"We need to call the police," Xinyu said eventually, her voice muffled against your shoulder. "We can't let him get away with this."

"Not tonight," Sohyun said, her voice muffled against your other shoulder. "I just… I just want to stay here. I just want to be with you."

You felt a tremor run through both of them. You closed your eyes, leaning your head back against the wall, exhausted and hurting, but feeling more alive than you ever had in your life. The lines were blurred. The rules had changed.

And you knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your bones, that nothing would ever be the same again.

The hot water beat against your back, a stinging cascade that did little to wash away the grime of the evening but succeeded admirably in making you aware of every single bruise blooming across your skin. You leaned your forehead against the cool tile of the shower wall, hissing as the spray hit the raw scrape on your thigh. The adrenaline had finally faded, leaving behind a hollow, aching exhaustion. Your knuckles were swollen, the skin split, and your ribs felt like they’d been put through a trash compactor.

You turned off the water and stepped out, dripping onto the bathmat. The mirror was fogged up, but you didn't need to see your reflection to know you looked like hell. You dried off roughly, the friction of the towel sending sharp little sparks of pain through your nervous system. It was grounding. You were alive. Han was gone. That was the metric that mattered now.

When you walked back into the living room, the silence was heavy, but it wasn't the oppressive silence of before. It was fragile. Xinyu was sitting on the edge of your couch, her long legs crossed, staring at her hands. Sohyun was by the window, looking out at the dark street, her silhouette stiff and unmoving. They looked like statues in a museum dedicated to ruined evenings.

Xinyu looked up first. Her eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, were rimmed with red. She didn't smile, but the tension in her shoulders dropped a fraction when she saw you.

"Hey," she said, her voice raspy.

"Hey," you replied, wincing as you adjusted your waistband. "You two okay?"

"We're alive," Sohyun said, not turning around. Her voice was distant, brittle. "Thanks to you."

There was a heavy pause. You stood there, feeling awkward and massive in your small apartment, looming over them like a damaged guard dog.

"I don't want to go back to the dorms tonight," Xinyu said suddenly. She looked up at you, her gaze direct and pleading. "I can't… I can't be alone right now. And I don't want to be around other people. Just here."

"Me neither," Sohyun added, turning from the window. Her face was pale, but her eyes were burning with an intensity that made your stomach flip. "I’m staying."

You looked between them. The logical part of your brain, the part that wasn't currently swimming in endorphins and pain, screamed that this was a terrible idea. Three people in a tiny one-room apartment? After the night you’d just had? It was a recipe for disaster.

But looking at them—seeing the fear still lingering in the lines of their bodies, the way they held themselves like they expected the door to burst open again—you couldn't say no. You were just a freshman. You were the guy who fixed things, who carried the boxes, who took the hits. You weren't the guy who told Xinyu or Sohyun 'no'.

"Okay," you said, rubbing the back of your neck. "You can take the bed. I'll crash out here on the couch."

Sohyun opened her mouth, a protest forming on her lips. She looked at the narrow, lumpy couch, then at your bruised ribs, her brow furrowing. "You're hurt. You shouldn't be on that spring-loaded piece of shit. We can all—"

"It's fine," you cut her off gently. You couldn't handle sharing a bed with both of them tonight. Not after the bathroom. Not after seeing the look in Sohyun’s eyes when she watched Xinyu kiss you. The air was too thick with unspoken things. "I need the space to stretch out anyway. Trust me, I’ll sleep better here."

Sohyun hesitated, her jaw working silently. She wanted to push, but she didn't. She just nodded, looking at the floor. "Okay. If you say so."

They gathered their things—minimal, since they’d arrived with nothing but the clothes on their backs—and disappeared into your bedroom. You heard the door click shut, and you let out a breath you felt like you’d been holding for hours.

You collapsed onto the couch. The springs groaned under your weight, digging into your side exactly where Han had punched you. You stared up at the ceiling, counting the water stains. It was uncomfortable, but you were right. You needed this distance. You needed to let your heart rate slow down, to let the images of Han’s face, of Sohyun’s terror, of Xinyu swinging that skillet, fade into the background.

You closed your eyes, drifting in that grey space between wakefulness and sleep, where the pain was just a dull hum.

rustle of fabric. A scent—jasmine and stale rain.

You were pulled from the fog by a dip in the cushions beside your legs. Your eyes snapped open, adjusting to the dark room. The streetlights outside cast long, faint shadows across the floor.

"Xinyu?" you whispered, sitting up slightly.

She was there, kneeling on the floor beside the couch. She had changed out of her torn clothes and was wearing one of your oversized t-shirts, the fabric swallowing her petite frame. Her hair was loose, a dark curtain around her face.

"Shh," she whispered, placing a hand on your knee. Her touch was hot, electric. "Go back to sleep."

"What are you doing out here?" you asked, your voice rough. "Sohyun is—"

"Asleep," Xinyu cut you off, crawling up onto the couch. She moved with a slow, deliberate grace, straddling your legs. "She's out cold. She cried herself to sleep in five minutes flat."

She leaned forward, her weight settling on your thighs. You could feel the heat radiating from her body, soaking through the thin blanket you'd pulled over yourself. She was so close you could see the faint bruise on her cheekbone, a dark purple mark against her pale skin.

"I couldn't sleep," she murmured, her voice dropping an octave, turning into something husky and dangerous. "I kept hearing him. I kept feeling him." She took your hand and guided it to her chest, right over her heart. It was hammering, a frantic rhythm against your palm. "But then I thought about you. About what you did."

"Xinyu, we shouldn't," you said, your breath hitching. You glanced frantically at the closed bedroom door. "Sohyun is right there. If she hears—"

"She won't," Xinyu said, her eyes locking onto yours. They were dark, dilated with a hunger that terrified you. "I need this. I need to know I'm alive. I need to know you're real."

She leaned down and kissed you.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a collision. Her lips crashed against yours, tasting of mint and desperation. You tried to pull back, your brain screaming about Sohyyun, about the door, about the sheer insanity of the situation, but your body betrayed you. Your hands found her waist, fingers digging into the soft skin above her hipbones.

"Xinyu, wait," you gasped against her mouth. "She wouldn't… she wouldn't want this."

She pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, her lips swollen and wet. "She doesn't have to know," she whispered, the words sending a jolt of guilty arousal straight to your groin. "Don't worry about her. Worry about me. Worry about us."

She captured your lips again, and this time, you melted. The resistance in your chest shattered, replaced by a raw, overwhelming need. You were hurt, you were exhausted, but she was here, and she was choosing you. Her tongue pushed into your mouth, dominating, exploring, claiming you.

Xinyu sat up, breaking the kiss but keeping her body pressed flush against yours. She grabbed the hem of your t-shirt she was wearing and pulled it over her head in one fluid motion.

The air left your lungs. She was naked beneath it. The moonlight caught the curve of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips. She was stunning, a work of art carved from ivory and shadow. Her skin was flawless, save for the fading marks of the day's violence.

She reached down, her fingers nimble as she undid the drawstring of your sweatpants. You lifted your hips to help her, unable to look away from her face. She was watching you with a predatory intensity, her eyes raking over your bruised chest like she was memorizing the map of your pain.

She tugged your pants and boxers down just enough to free your cock. It sprang free, hard and throbbing in the cool air.

"Fuck," she breathed, wrapping her long fingers around the shaft. "Look at you. You're so fucking hard for me."

She stroked you slowly, her grip firm and sure. Her thumb brushed over the sensitive head, spreading the bead of pre-cum that had gathered there. The sensation was electric, shooting sparks up your spine. You groaned, your head falling back against the armrest.

"Xinyu, please," you rasped. You didn't even know what you were begging for. For her to stop? For her to never stop?

"I've wanted this for so long," she admitted, her voice a sultry murmur. "Watching you watch her. It drove me crazy. But tonight… tonight you're mine."

She lowered her head, her dark hair cascading down like a curtain to create a private world between you and the cushions of the couch. You felt her breath, hot and damp, against the head of your cock before her tongue swiped out.

She licked you from base to tip, a long, slow drag that had your toes curling. She took her time, exploring every inch, tracing the thick veins that bulged along the shaft. She wasn't rushing. She was savoring it.

Then, without warning, she took you into her mouth.

The heat was incredible. Her mouth was wet and tight, her tongue swirling around the underside of your shaft as she bobbed her head. You gasped, your hands flying to her hair, tangling in the silky strands. She took you deep, deeper than you expected, her throat relaxing to accommodate your size.

You watched her, fascinated and horrified by the sight. Her cheeks were hollowed out, her lips stretched wide around your girth. She looked beautiful like this—vulgar and elegant all at once. She moaned around your cock, the vibration humming through your pelvis, making your hips buck involuntarily.

"Jesus, Xinyu," you hissed. "That feels… fuck."

She pulled back with a wet pop, saliva glistening on her chin and connecting her lips to your tip in a thin, broken string. She looked up at you, her eyes glassy and wild.

"You like that?" she asked, stroking you with her hand, slick with her spit. "You like me choking on your big fucking dick?"

"Yes," you groaned, unable to lie. "It's so good."

"Good," she said, a dark smirk playing on her lips. "Because I'm not done."

She dove back down, sucking harder this time, her head bobbing with a frantic rhythm. She was messy, letting the spit dribble down your shaft, using it to lubricate her hand as she twisted it in tandem with her mouth. The sounds were obscene—slurping, gagging, wet sucking noises that filled the quiet apartment.

You could feel the pressure building in your balls, a tight, heavy coil. You were getting close, too fast. The adrenaline, the danger, the sheer taboo nature of what was happening—it was all too much.

"Wait," you gasped, gently tugging on her hair. "I'm gonna… if you keep doing that…"

She pulled off, panting, her chest heaving. "Not yet. I want you to come inside me."

She moved up your body, straddling your waist. Your cock slapped against her stomach, leaving a wet smear on her skin. She grabbed your wrists, pinning them to the couch on either side of your head.

"I'm going to fuck you now," she declared, her voice leaving no room for argument. "And you're going to take it."

She reached between her legs, positioning your cock at her entrance. You could feel the heat radiating from her core, could feel how wet she was. She was soaked, her juices coating your tip as she rubbed it against her slit.

"Look at me," she commanded.

You looked up into her eyes. She bit her lower lip, her brow furrowing in concentration as she slowly lowered herself onto you.

The stretch was incredible. She was tight, tighter than you would have imagined, her walls gripping you like a velvet vise. She took you inch by inch, her body shuddering as she adjusted to your size. You watched your cock disappear inside her, her lips parting to swallow you whole.

"Fuck, you're big," she breathed, her head falling back. She bottomed out, her hips resting against yours, completely full.

She stilled for a moment, her inner muscles fluttering around you, pulsing and squeezing. The sensation was almost too much to bear. You groaned, your hands gripping her thighs, feeling the muscle tense beneath your fingers.

"Xinyu," you whispered. "You feel amazing."

"Ready?" she asked, looking down at you with a wicked grin.

"Ride me."

She didn't need to be told twice. She began to move.

She started with a slow, grinding rhythm, rolling her hips in circles. The friction was exquisite, rubbing against every sensitive nerve ending. She bit her lip again, suppressing a moan, her eyes locked onto yours.

"Like this?" she teased, her voice breathy. "You like watching me ride your cock?"

"Yes," you choked out. "God, yes."

She picked up the pace. Her movements became wilder, more erratic. She was riding you in earnest now, slamming her hips down onto yours. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed in the room—thwack, thwack, thwack—a primal, rhythmic beat.

Her breasts bounced with every thrust, jiggling with the momentum. You reached up, cupping them, feeling their weight in your hands. Her nipples were hard points against your palms. She leaned into your touch, arching her back, thrusting her chest out.

"Harder," she demanded, her voice rising in pitch. "Touch me harder."

You sat up as much as you could, wrapping one arm around her waist to pull her closer, burying your face in her neck. You tasted the salt on her skin, smelled the scent of her arousal mixed with the lingering smell of your apartment. You bit down on her shoulder, leaving a mark.

She cried out, her hips bucking wildly. "Yes! Fucking mark me. I'm yours tonight."

The dirty talk was pouring out of her, a stream of filth that seemed to shock you as much as it turned you on. She was usually so composed, so controlled. Seeing her like this—wild, uninhibited, sweating and cursing as she fucked you on a ratty couch—was a revelation.

"You're so fucking tight," you groaned into her ear. "You take my cock so well."

"I love it," she panted. "I love how you stretch me. You fill me up so fucking good."

She shifted her angle, and suddenly she was hitting that spot inside her, the one that made her toes curl. She let out a loud, uninhibited moan, her head falling back, her black hair sticking to her sweaty face.

"Right there," she gasped. "Don't stop. Don't you dare stop."

You grabbed her hips, guiding her, helping her slam down onto you. You were meeting her thrusts now, arching your hips up to drive deeper into her. The friction was intense, a burning heat that spread from your groin out to your fingertips.

The couch was squeaking loudly beneath you, a rhythmic squeak-squeak-squeak that seemed deafening in the quiet apartment. You glanced nervously at the bedroom door, terrified that Sohyun would wake up and walk in.

"She wouldn't know," Xinyu whispered, catching your gaze. She saw the fear in your eyes and smirked, a look of pure, unadulterated lust. "Let her hear. Let her know what she's missing."

She tightened her walls around you, squeezing hard. The sensation ripped a groan from your throat.

"I'm getting close," you warned. "Xinyu, I can't hold it."

"Me too," she panted. "Come with me. Fill me up."

She reached down between her legs, her fingers finding her clit. She rubbed it frantically, her movements desperate and clumsy. The visual was almost enough to send you over the edge right there—this stunning, high-status debater, sweat-soaked and naked, riding your cock like her life depended on it.

"Come for me," you commanded, your voice rough.

She let out a scream, muffled by her biting down on her own lip. Her whole body seized up, her back arching into a perfect bow. You felt her pussy spasm around you, pulsing rhythmically, milking your cock.

That was it.

The dam broke. Your hips jerked upward, driving yourself deep inside her one last time. You exploded, your vision whiting out as you emptied yourself into her. You could feel the spurts of cum painting her insides, hot and thick. The release was intense, shattering, leaving you gasping for air.

Xinyu collapsed against you, her body limp and trembling. You held her close, your chests heaving together, your hearts racing in sync. The room smelled of sex—sweat, cum, and the metallic tang of adrenaline.

For a long time, neither of you spoke. You just listened to the sound of your breathing slowing down, returning to normal. The guilt began to creep back in, cold and insidious, but you pushed it away. For now, you just wanted to hold her.

Xinyu stirred, lifting her head to look at you. She was disheveled, her lips swollen, her eyes glassy. She looked beautiful.

"Okay?" you whispered, brushing a strand of hair away from her face.

She smiled, a genuine, soft smile that reached her eyes. "Yeah. I'm okay."

She leaned in and kissed you, a soft, lingering kiss that was miles away from the desperate mashing of lips from earlier.

"We should get cleaned up," she murmured against your lips.

"Yeah," you agreed. "Before Sohyun wakes up."

Xinyu pulled back, a mischievous glint returning to her eyes. "Let her wonder," she said, climbing off your lap.

She stood up, your cum dripping down her inner thigh, gleaming in the moonlight. She didn't even try to hide it. She looked down at you, naked and vulnerable on the couch, and winked.

"Thanks for the rescue, hero," she whispered, grabbing her t-shirt from the floor.

She pulled it on, covering her body, but the image of her standing there, marked by you, was burned into your brain. As she turned and slipped silently back toward the bedroom, you knew that everything had changed.

"Don't play dumb, asshole," Anna snaps from the couch. She’s kicking her legs back and forth, her skirt riding up high enough to show the lace tops of her stockings. She looks bored, but her eyes are sharp, glinting with something dangerous. "We know you've been sneaking around. Phone glued to your hand, smiling like a fucking idiot at the screen. Who is she?"

You glance at Dayeon. She’s sitting quietly in the armchair, hands folded in her lap, looking unassuming in her oversized sweater. But she’s watching you too, her gaze dark and unblinking. It’s Dayeon who scares you the most right now. She was always the quiet one, the one you saved from the bullies back in school. But ever since she came back from Seoul, there's a new edge to her.

"It's… it's Joona," you admit, the words feeling like lead as they leave your mouth. "We've been seeing each other for a few months. I was going to tell you guys, I just—"

The silence that follows is absolute. It’s the kind of silence that happens right before a gunshot.

"Joona?" Karina laughs, but it's a sharp, jagged sound. "That plain-looking girl from accounting? You're dumping us for her?"

"I'm not dumping anyone, we're just friends—" you start, standing up, trying to put some distance between you and the sudden shift in the room.

"We aren't just friends," Anna cuts in, her voice dropping to a whisper that screams across the room. She stands up too, moving with a predator's grace. "We never were. And you know it."

Before you can process what that means, the door clicks shut. You didn't see Dayeon move, but she’s suddenly standing by the entrance, locking the deadbolt with a deliberate, terrifying click.

"What are you doing?" You back up, your knees hitting the edge of the coffee table. "Dayeon?"

"We gave you everything," Dayeon says, her voice soft but carrying a terrifying weight. "We protected you. We loved you when no one else did. And this is how you repay us? By spreading your seed for some trash who doesn't deserve it?"

"Seed?" The word sends a jolt of panic through your system. "What the fuck are you talking about? Open the door."

Karina lunges. She’s faster than you remember, tackling you with enough force to knock the wind out of your lungs. You hit the floor hard, the back of your head slamming against the wood. Before you can recover, Anna is there, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head.

"Get the fuck off me!" You struggle, thrashing your legs, but Karina straddles your stomach, her weight pinning you down. She’s heavy, solid, and strong as hell.

"Shh, baby," Anna coos, leaning down close enough that you can smell the mint on her breath. "Stop fighting. You're only making it harder on yourself. We're going to take what's ours."

"We?" You gasp, staring up at them. Karina is grinding her hips against your stomach, a manic grin stretching her lips. Dayeon is walking over slowly, pulling a pair of scissors from her purse.

"You think we didn't see the way you looked at us?" Dayeon murmurs, kneeling beside your head. She runs the cold metal of the scissors down your cheek, sending shivers racing through your body. "All those years. Playing innocent. We were waiting for you to grow up. To realize you belonged to us."

"I—"

"Shut up," Karina barks, grabbing your face and forcing you to look at her. "You're ours. You hear me? This cock," she grabs your crotch roughly, her fingers digging in painfully, "is ours. And we're going to use it until you forget what that bitch Joona even looks like."

"Rip it," Anna commands, nodding at your shirt.

Dayeon doesn't hesitate. She slides the scissors under the collar of your shirt and snips. The fabric tears with a harsh sound, and she keeps cutting, slicing right down the middle until your chest is exposed to the cool air. They don't stop there. Karina grabs the ruined fabric and rips it apart, the buttons pinging against the floor like scattered bullets.

"Look at this body," Anna breathes, her hands roaming over your chest, her nails scratching hard enough to leave red welts. "We built this up. We fed you. Took care of you. It belongs to us."

"Please, guys, stop," you beg, but your protest is weak, drowned out by the blood rushing in your ears. The sheer absurdity of the situation warps your mind. This is a nightmare. It has to be.

"Stop?" Karina laughs, leaning down to bite your neck hard. You cry out as her teeth sink into your skin, sending a spike of pain mixed with a confusing rush of heat through your system. "We haven't even started yet."

She stands up briefly, tearing her own top off. Her massive tits bounce free, heavy and pale, her nipples hardening instantly in the air. She's not wearing a bra. She grabs your hands and places them on her breasts, forcing you to squeeze.

"Feel that?" she growls. "That's what you need. Not that flat-chested whore."

Anna follows suit, stripping out of her clothes with frantic urgency. She yanks her skirt down, kicking it away, then tears her panties off like they're made of paper. She climbs onto your legs, pinning them down, her wet pussy sliding against your jeans.

"He's hard," Anna observes, looking down at the bulge in your pants with a hungry smirk. "The little pervert likes it when we force him."

"No, I don't—"

"Liar," Dayeon hisses in your ear. She’s stripped too, her slender body pale and flawless. She straddles your face, her thighs pressing against your cheeks, cutting off your view of the others. The scent of her arousal hits you like a drug—musky, sweet, and overwhelming. "You've always wanted this. You just needed a push."

"Eat it," she commands, lowering her cunt onto your mouth.

You clamp your mouth shut, turning your head to the side.

"I said eat it!" Dayeon grabs your hair, yanking hard enough to bring tears to your eyes. She forces your head back, grinding her pussy against your lips. "Don't make me hurt you."

You have no choice. You stick your tongue out, lapping at her folds. She tastes salty and sweet, impossibly wet. She moans loudly, grinding down harder, smothering you with her flesh. You can't breathe, your nose pressed against her clit, your tongue working frantically to keep up with her rhythm.

"Fuck, yes," Dayeon whines, her head thrown back. "That's it. Take it all."

Meanwhile, you feel hands fighting with the button of your jeans. Karina rips the button off, the snap loud in the small room. She yanks the zipper down and tugs your pants and boxers down in one rough motion. Your cock springs free, slapping against your stomach.

"Look at this beautiful dick," Karina purrs, wrapping her hand around your shaft. Her grip is tight, almost painful. She strokes you roughly, her dry palm chafing your skin. "It's so big. So perfect for us."

She doesn't wait. She spits on your cock, using the saliva as lube as she jerks you off faster. Your hips buck involuntarily, the pleasure intense and humiliating.

"He's loving it," Anna laughs, watching your face. "Look at him, trying to hump Karina's hand. What a slut."

"I'm not a—" you try to shout, but your voice is muffled by Dayeon's pussy.

"Shut up and suck!" Dayeon grinds down harder, cutting off your air again.

The lack of oxygen makes your head spin. The combination of Karina's rough handjob and Dayeon's suffocating weight on your face is short-circuiting your brain. You feel your resistance crumbling, replaced by a primal, burning need. Your body is betraying you, reacting to their touch despite your terror.

"Get him wetter," Anna says, leaning down to spit on your cock too.

"I'm gonna ride him now," Karina announces. She climbs over you, positioning her dripping hole above your shaft. "I'm gonna milk every last drop out of him."

"No, wait!" You try to buck her off, but Anna grabs your shoulders, pinning you down.

"Take it, bitch," Karina snarls.

She slams down onto you.

You scream into Dayeon's pussy as Karina impales herself on your cock. She’s tight, so fucking tight it feels like she’s tearing you apart. She doesn't give you time to adjust, doesn't give a shit about your comfort. She starts riding you immediately, bouncing up and down with brutal force.

"Fuck! Yes!" Karina screams, her nails digging into your chest. "You feel so fucking good! Better than I imagined!"

Her pussy grips you like a vice, rippling around your length as she pistons up and down. The sound of skin slapping against skin is loud and wet, filling the room. Smack, smack, smack.

"Look at that face," Anna coos, stroking your cheek as you gasp for air whenever Dayeon lifts her hips slightly. "He's breaking already. Look at his eyes rolling back."

"He's thick," Dayeon moans, grinding her clit against your nose. "I can feel him throbbing inside you, Karina. He's gonna cum so hard."

"No," you gasp, your voice weak. "I don't want to—"

"Don't lie," Karina growls, slapping your face. The sting shocks you. "You love this. You love being used. Admit it!"

"Admit it," Anna echoes, pinching your nipples.

"I… I…" You can't form words. Your mind is fracturing under the onslaught of sensation. The pleasure is too intense, too sharp. It borders on pain, but it’s dragging you under.

Dayeon lifts off your face, finally letting you breathe. You gasp in huge lungfuls of air, your vision swimming.

"Say it," Dayeon commands, grabbing your chin and forcing you to look at her. "Say you belong to us."

"Please…"

"Say it!" Anna slaps your inner thigh.

"I belong to you!" you scream, the words ripped from your throat.

"Good boy," Dayeon purrs. "Now fill Karina up. Breed her pussy."

"Breed me!" Karina shrieks, riding you even harder, her ass cheeks clapping against your thighs with bruising force. "Knock me up! Put a baby in me!"

The filthiness of it, the sheer depravity, snaps something inside you. The last threads of your resistance snap. You stop fighting. Your hips lift off the floor to meet Karina's thrusts, driving your cock deeper into her wet heat.

"Yes! That's it!" Karina howls. "Fuck me! Fuck me like you mean it!"

You grab her hips, your fingers sinking into her soft flesh. You hate yourself for it, but you're pounding into her now, matching her brutal rhythm. You want to cum. You need to cum. You need to fill her up just like she asked.

"See?" Anna laughs, watching you lose control. "He's just a breeding stud. That's all he's good for."

"My turn," Anna demands, pushing Karina off you.

Karina cries out in protest as your cock slips out of her, glistening with her juices. She collapses on the floor, panting, her legs twitching.

Anna doesn't waste a second. She straddles you reverse-cowgirl, her ass facing you. She grabs your slick cock and lines it up with her entrance.

"Watch this," she orders, looking back at you over her shoulder.

She sits down on your shaft, taking you balls deep in one smooth motion. She groans, her back arching, her head thrown back. She starts twerking on your dick, her ass bouncing up and down in mesmerizing circles.

"Fuck, his cock hits the spot," Anna moans, her hand reaching down to rub her clit furiously. "It's so deep!"

You stare at her ass, mesmerized by the way it jiggles with every thrust. You reach out, grabbing her cheeks, spreading them apart to see her asshole clenching as she rides you.

"Spank me," Anna commands. "Spank me hard!"

You bring your hand down on her ass with a loud crack.

"Harder!" she screams.

You slap her again, leaving a red handprint on her pale skin. You do it again and again, lost in the violence of the act. Your cock is throbbing, the pressure building to an unbearable peak.

"I'm close," you grunt, your hands gripping her hips so hard you're leaving bruises.

"Don't you dare cum yet," Dayeon warns. She's back, sitting on your chest, playing with her tits. "You have to breed all of us. That was the deal."

"I can't hold it," you gasp, your vision blurring.

"Hold it!" Karina snaps, recovering enough to crawl over and grab your balls. She squeezes them, just on the edge of pain.

You scream, your back bowing off the floor. The denial is torture, but it only makes the pleasure more intense.

Anna is bouncing wildly now, her pussy gripping you like a machine. "I'm gonna cum! I'm gonna cum all over his big dick!"

She screams, her body convulsing as her orgasm crashes through her. Her pussy clamps down on you, milking you, trying to pull the cum out of your balls.

"Switch," Dayeon says, pushing Anna off your dripping cock.

Anna rolls to the side, gasping, her body trembling with aftershocks.

Dayeon climbs on top of you, facing you this time. Her expression is calm, almost serene, contrasting with the madness of the last few minutes. She positions your cock at her entrance and sinks down slowly, savoring every inch.

"You're mine now," she whispers, leaning down to kiss you. It's a soft, tender kiss, completely at odds with the brutal fucking she starts next.

She moves her hips in a slow, grinding motion, swirling her walls around your head. It feels different—deeper, more intimate. She stares into your eyes, her gaze boring into your soul.

"You're never leaving us," she says, her voice hypnotic. "We'll lock you up. Keep you in this room. Use you every day until you're dry."

The thought should terrify you, but instead, it sends a jolt of dark ecstasy through your body. You grab her ass, pulling her down harder onto you.

"Do it," you growl, your voice unrecognizable. "Breed me. Use me."

"That's it," Dayeon smiles, a twisted, beautiful smile. "Break for me."

She starts riding you faster, harder. The other two girls crawl over, licking and biting at your nipples, your neck, your ears. It's sensory overload. The heat, the smell, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh, the feeling of three bodies writhing against you.

"Cum inside her," Karina whispers in your ear. "Fill her cunt up."

"Do it," Anna licks your other ear. "Knock her up."

The pressure in your balls is critical. You can't hold back any longer. You roar, thrusting up into Dayeon one last time, burying yourself to the hilt.

"Fuck!" you bellow as your cock explodes.

Dayeon screams as she feels the hot spurts of cum flooding her insides. Her pussy spasms around you, milking you for every drop. You cum harder than you ever have in your life, your body shaking violently, your vision going white.

You keep cumming, pulse after pulse, filling her up until it leaks out around your shaft, dripping down your balls.

"Take it all," Dayeon gasps, her body going limp as she collapses onto your chest.

You lay there, panting, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You're covered in sweat, scratches, and bite marks. Your body aches everywhere. But as the fog clears, you realize the horror isn't over.

Karina is already crawling between your legs, licking the excess cum off your softening cock. Anna is kissing Dayeon's neck, her hand moving down to play with Dayeon's cum-filled pussy.

"Round two," Karina looks up at you, her eyes wild. "You didn't think we were done, did you?"

She licks her lips, smiling. "We have all night. And you're going to breed us all until we can't walk."

The buzzing of your phone on the coffee table cuts through the heavy, panting silence of the room like a jagged knife. It’s a sharp, jarring sound, piercing the haze of sweat and sex that clings to the air. The screen lights up, casting a harsh blue glow across Karina’s naked, sweat-slicked back.

Joona.

The name hits you in the chest with the force of a physical blow. Panic, cold and sharp, spikes through your system, momentarily cutting through the fog of lust and exhaustion. You try to move, to reach for it, but your limbs feel like lead. Dayeon is still slumped against your chest, her breathing ragged, her pussy still pulsing around your softening cock, trapping you inside her heat.

"Ah, look at that," Karina purrs, her voice dripping with venom and amusement. She crawls over the floor, her movements sinuous and predatory, like a cat sizing up a wounded mouse. She grabs the phone before you can even twitch your fingers. "The little wifey is calling."

"Don't," you croak, your voice wrecked from screaming and moaning. "Karina, please. Don't answer it."

Anna laughs, a wet, throaty sound from somewhere near your legs. She’s sitting up, wiping a smear of cum from her chin, her eyes wide and manic. "Why not? It’s rude to ignore a call on your birthday, isn't it? Especially from your girlfriend."

"Please," you beg, but the protest is weak. Your body is betraying you again. Just hearing Joona’s name in this context—while your cock is buried deep inside Dayeon, while the smell of three different pussies saturates the room—sends a sick, twisted jolt of arousal through your gut.

Karina taps the screen, swiping the green icon with a flourish. She holds the phone up, her thumb hovering over the speaker icon. She looks at you, her eyes dark and cruel, and then she taps it.

"Hello?" Joona’s voice is small, tinny, and anxious. "Babe? Are you there? I’ve been trying to reach you. Why didn't you answer?"

Karina’s lips curl into a vicious smile. She locks eyes with you, savoring the terror on your face. "Hey, Joona," she says, her voice sugary sweet, laced with poison. "He’s a little… tied up right now."

"Karina?" Joona’s confusion is evident. "What… what are you doing there? Is everything okay? Put him on the phone."

"He can't really talk right now," Karina drawls, shifting her weight. She glances down at Dayeon, who is starting to stir. "He’s busy. Very, very busy."

"Busy?" Joona’s voice rises in pitch. "It’s his birthday! We had plans—"

"Plans changed," Karina snaps, the sweetness vanishing instantly. "And frankly, he doesn't want to see you anymore. He’s realized where he actually belongs."

You open your mouth to deny it, to scream at Joona to run, but the words die in your throat. Because Dayeon is moving again. She lifts her hips slowly, letting your cock slide out of her with a wet, filthy squelch. You’re covered in her cum, in yours, the mixture frothy and white on your shaft.

"Time for round two, baby," Anna whispers, her breath hot against your balls.

Anna ducks her head, her long hair tickling your thighs, and presses her lips against the sensitive head of your cock. She kisses it, soft and reverent, before her tongue darts out to lap at the mixture of fluids coating you. The sensation is electric. You groan, your hips bucking involuntarily.

"Who is that?" Joona demands, her voice shrill now. "What is going on? Let me talk to him!"

"Shh," Karina hushes the phone, her eyes never leaving your face. "Listen."

Dayeon doesn’t give you a moment to recover. She plants her hands on your chest, her nails digging in hard, and slams herself back down on your cock. She takes you to the hilt in one brutal stroke.

"Fuck!" you gasp, your back arching off the floor. She’s tighter than before, squeezing you like a vice, her walls rippling and massaging your length.

Dayeon throws her head back, her sweat-dampened hair sticking to her flushed cheeks. She starts to ride you, hard and fast. "Yes," she hisses, her voice loud and clear in the sudden silence of the room. "It’s still so big. Stretching me out."

"He's… he's…" Joona stammers on the other end of the line. "What is that noise? What was that sound?"

Karina giggles, a dark, delighted sound. She turns the phone around, angling the camera so it points directly at the spectacle on the floor. Dayeon is bouncing on you now, her tits jiggling wildly with every thrust, her ass cheeks clapping against your thighs. Anna is still down there, her tongue working frantically over your balls and the base of your shaft wherever she can reach.

"Just a second, Joona," Karina says, her voice thick with sadistic pleasure. "I think you need to see this. I think you need to see what your 'boyfriend' is doing right now."

She taps the screen again. "Video call. Accept."

There’s a pause, a second of terrified silence, and then the connection clicks. You can't see Joona’s face, but you know she’s seeing you. She’s seeing your sweaty, heaving body, pinned to the floor. She’s seeing Dayeon, your childhood friend who you rescued from bullies, riding your cock like a woman possessed. She’s seeing Anna, your neighbor, licking your balls like they’re her favorite treat.

"Happy birthday, babe," Karina whispers into the microphone, holding the phone steady like a director filming a masterpiece. "Look at him. Look at the mess he's making."

"He's a bull, isn't he?" Karina continues, her voice loud enough for everyone to hear, echoing in the small room. "And as you can see, Joona, he is breeding the three of us tonight."

"No," you whimper, your face burning with humiliation. But your body is on fire. The shame is washing over you, mixing with the overwhelming pleasure of Dayeon’s pussy, turning into a dark, narcotic heat that clouds your mind.

"Look at his face," Anna laughs, pulling away from your balls for a second to look up at the camera. "He loves it. He's fucking loving it."

"Is that… is that Dayeon?" Joona’s voice cracks. "And Anna? What… what are you doing?"

"We're taking what's ours," Dayeon moans, never stopping her rhythm. She looks down at you, her eyes glazed over with lust. "Tell her, baby. Tell her how good it feels."

"It feels… so good," you choke out, the words torn from your throat. You hate yourself for saying it, but the feeling is undeniable. Her pussy is gripping you, milking you, dragging the pleasure out of you with every stroke. "Fuck, Dayeon, it feels so good."

"You liar!" Joona screams through the phone. "How could you? You said you loved me!"

"We love him more," Karina barks back. "We've always loved him more. We just waited until he was ready to be a man. And now? Now he's our personal stud."

Dayeon picks up the pace, her thighs burning against your sides. The sound of skin slapping against skin is obscene, wet and loud, filling the room. Smack, smack, smack. The visual must be devastating—Dayeon’s slender body impaled on you, her head thrown back in ecstasy, your cock disappearing inside her over and over again.

"He's filling me up, Joona," Dayeon taunts the phone, her voice breathy and high. "He's so deep. He's gonna put a baby in me."

"That's disgusting!" Joona cries. "I'm calling the police! I'm—"

"Go ahead," Karina sneers. "But by the time they get here, we'll be round three. And I'll be the one carrying his next kid. He’s not going anywhere. He’s exactly where he belongs."

She tosses the phone onto the couch, keeping the call connected, the audio still broadcasting. Joona’s sobbing is just background noise now, a pathetic soundtrack to the debauchery taking place on your living room floor.

"Fuck her," Karina growls, turning her attention back to you. She straddles your face, facing Dayeon, her knees on either side of your head. "Forget about her. You don't need that skinny little bitch. You have us."

You are suffocating in pussy again. Karina’s heavy thighs clamp around your head, her wet cunt pressing down onto your mouth. The smell is intoxicating—musk, sweat, and pure sex. You stick your tongue out, licking her folds frantically, driven by a hunger you didn't know you possessed.

"That's it," Karina moans, grinding down on your face. "Eat me. Make me cum on your face."

"Share," Anna demands, crawling up to join them. She grabs Karina’s tits, squeezing them hard, and pulls her in for a bruising kiss. They are making out above you, their tongues tangling, while Dayeon continues to mercilessly ride your cock.

The sensory overload is breaking you. You can't see anything but Karina’s ass and pussy in front of your eyes. You can't feel anything but Dayeon’s tight, squeezing heat around your dick and Anna’s hands roaming over your chest and stomach. You can't hear anything but the wet sounds of sex, the girls' moans, and the distant crying of your ex-girlfriend on the phone.

"He's getting close," Dayeon pants, her rhythm becoming erratic. "I can feel him throbbing. He's gonna cum again."

"Not yet," Anna gasps, breaking the kiss with Karina. "I want it. I want him to cum in my mouth."

"He cums inside me first," Dayeon snarls, slamming down hard. "I’m not getting off until he floods my womb."

"Greedy bitch," Karina laughs, grinding her clit against your nose. "Let him decide."

They don't let you decide, of course. They just use you.

Dayeon’s pussy clamps down like a trap. The pressure is immense, her muscles rippling along your shaft in waves. You scream into Karina’s pussy as your second orgasm builds, violent and unstoppable.

"Do it!" Dayeon shrieks. "Breed me! Knock me up, you bastard!"

"Fuck!" You roar, your body arching, your toes curling.

You explode inside her. It’s even more intense than the first time. Your cock jerks and pulses, spurting thick ropes of cum deep into her cunt. Dayeon screams, her body convulsing, her pussy milking you for every drop, sucking the seed right out of your balls.

"Yes! Yes! Fill me up!" she cries out, collapsing forward onto Karina’s shoulder.

Your vision whites out. Your ears are ringing. You are dimly aware of Joona’s wails cutting off abruptly—maybe she hung up, maybe she couldn't bear to listen anymore. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters except the feeling of releasing everything you have into Dayeon.

Karina climbs off your face, giving you a chance to gasp for air. You are drowning in sweat, your chest heaving.

"Look at that," Anna breathes, watching the cum leak out of Dayeon’s pussy, running down your shaft and pooling on your stomach. "So much fucking cum. He really is a bull."

Dayeon lifts herself off you slowly, her legs trembling. Your cock slips out of her with a wet pop, followed by a flood of white fluid. It’s a visceral, nasty sight—your combined juices dripping onto your skin.

"Clean him up," Karina commands, pointing at Anna.

Anna doesn't hesitate. She dives between your legs, her tongue lapping up the mess. She licks your cock clean, then moves lower, scooping the cum off your stomach with a hungry groan.

"Tastes so good," Anna mumbles, her mouth full. "Mix of all three of us."

"My turn," Karina says, her eyes wild. She looks at your semi-hard cock, which is already twitching, showing signs of life despite the exhaustion. "Don't think you're done, stud. I haven't been bred yet."

She pushes Anna aside and straddles your hips. Her pussy is red and swollen, dripping wet. She grabs your cock, stroking it roughly, forcing it back to full hardness.

"Please," you whimper, your voice barely a whisper. "I can't."

"You can and you will," Karina snarls. She lines you up and impales herself in one brutal drop. "You're going to fuck me until I pass out. And then you're going to fuck Anna again. We're not stopping until your balls are empty."

She starts riding you, harder and faster than the others. She’s relentless, a machine built for sex. Her ass slaps against your thighs with bruising force. She leans forward, biting your neck, your shoulders, leaving marks all over your skin.

"You belong to us," she growls in your ear. "Forget Joona. Forget everyone. You're just a toy for our cunts. A breeder. Say it."

"I'm… I'm a toy," you gasp, your mind fracturing under the relentless assault. "I'm your breeder."

"Good boy," she moans, her nails digging into your chest. "Now fuck me back. Give me that baby."

You pushed back from your desk, the wheels of your chair squeaking in the profound silence. The sound made Kazuha stir, lifting her head. Her eyes, usually bright and curious, were glassy with exhaustion. “Still alive?” she mumbled, her voice raspy from disuse.

“Barely,” you said, the word tasting like stale coffee. “My brain feels like overcooked noodles.”

Chaewon swiveled her chair slowly, the motion deliberate and tired. “Yunjin’s new timeline is a war crime. A literal, Geneva Convention-violating war crime.” She ran a hand through her blonde hair, which was usually sleek and perfect but now had a frizzy, defeated quality. “I haven’t seen my boyfriend in three days. He thinks I’ve joined a cult.”

“A cult of misery and stock options,” Kazuha added, resting her chin back on her arms. “I used to think this job would be… enlightening. You know? Cutting-edge. Instead, it’s just cutting away my will to live.”

A shared, humorless laugh passed between the three of you. It was a familiar ritual. The complaints were the same, the fatigue was the same. The only thing that ever changed was the depth of the despair. Tonight, it felt bottomless.

Chaewon’s gaze, however, shifted. It lost its vague, thousand-yard stare and sharpened, focusing on you with an intensity that felt new. She looked you up and down, not with the casual glance of a coworker, but with an appraisal that made the skin on your neck prickle. Her eyes lingered on your shoulders, your hands resting on the desk.

“You look like shit,” she said finally, but her tone wasn’t cruel. It was observational, almost clinical.

“Thanks. You too.”

“No, I mean it.” She stood up, the movement fluid despite the hour. She walked over, her heeled boots clicking softly on the linoleum until she was leaning against your cubicle partition. The scent of her perfume—something expensive and floral—cut through the sterile office air. “We all do. We’re rotting in here. Our brains are mush. Our bodies are… just sacks of tired meat.”

Kazuha watched, her head still on her arms, but her eyes were tracking Chaewon’s every move.

“What’s your point, Chaewon?” you asked, too tired for riddles.

“My point is,” she said, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial murmur, “we need a release valve. Something the company health plan doesn’t cover.” Her lips, painted a deep, smudged berry red, curved into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. It was a hungry, brittle thing. “My boyfriend is across the city, probably asleep. I’m here, vibrating with this… this awful, coiled-up energy. And you’re here.”

The implication hung in the air, thick and sudden. You blinked, sure you’d misheard her exhaustion-addled brain. But the look in her eye was unmistakable. It was a look of pure, unadulterated need, stripped of all pretense.

“Chaewon…” Kazuha’s voice was a whisper, but it held a note of warning, or maybe curiosity.

“Don’t ‘Chaewon’ me,” she shot back, her eyes still locked on you. “You feel it too. This place sucks the life out of you. It leaves this… this hollow, angry space. And sometimes, you just need to feel something else. Something real. Even if it’s just friction.”

Her words were blunt, vulgar in their honesty. They bypassed your tired mind and spoke directly to the part of you that was just as frayed, just as desperate for a sensation that wasn’t numbness. You’d noticed Chaewon before, of course. Everyone did. She had that effortless, sharp beauty—high cheekbones, a slender neck, legs that seemed to go on forever in her tailored pants. But this was different. This wasn’t admiration. This was an offer. A transaction of stress relief.

“The supply closet,” she said, nodding her head toward the far end of the floor. “The one with the broken light. No one goes in there after hours.”

“You’re serious,” you said, not a question.

“Deadly.” She reached out, her fingers brushing the back of your hand where it lay on the mouse. Her touch was electric against your tired skin. “Come on. Let’s be unprofessional for fifteen minutes.”

You looked at Kazuha. Her expression was unreadable, a mixture of shock, fascination, and something else—a flicker of the same desperate hunger. She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shrug, as if to say, Why the hell not?

That was all the permission you needed. The rebellion of it, the sheer audacity, was a shot of adrenaline straight to your core. You stood up, your chair rolling back to bump softly against the desk.

Without another word, Chaewon turned and walked, her hips swaying with a purpose that had nothing to do with work. You followed, your heart hammering against your ribs, the fatigue momentarily burned away by a raw, buzzing anticipation. You heard the soft scrape of Kazuha’s chair behind you. She was following too.

The walk to the supply closet was the longest thirty seconds of your life. The empty office felt cavernous, every shadow a potential witness. Chaewon didn’t hesitate. She pushed the door open, the darkness inside yawning wide. She stepped in, pulling you after her by the wrist. Kazuha slipped in last, closing the door behind her with a soft, definitive click.

The darkness was absolute, smelling of dust, paper, and industrial cleaner. Then a phone screen flared to life, held by Chaewon, casting her face in an eerie blue glow. It highlighted the determined set of her jaw, the dark pools of her eyes.

“No light,” she whispered, her voice a low vibration in the confined space. “Just us.”

In the dim, shifting light from the phone she’d tossed onto a shelf, you saw her move. Her hands went to the waistband of her trousers. The button popped open. The zipper hissed down. She hooked her thumbs into the fabric of her trousers and her black lace panties and pushed them down in one smooth, decisive motion, just past the curve of her hips. The fabric pooled around her thighs, held up by her stocking-tops. She didn’t take them off. She just… made an opening.

The sight was profoundly illicit. The pale skin of her lower stomach, the dark shadow of her pubic hair just visible, the way her trousers and panties constricted around her strong thighs. She braced one hand against a shelf stacked with reams of paper, the other reaching back to guide your hand.

“Fuck me,” she said, the words not a request, not even a command, but a statement of fact. A solution to a problem. “Just fuck me. Don’t think. Don’t talk. Just… make me feel something that isn’t this.”

Your own hands felt clumsy as you fumbled with your belt, your own fatigue replaced by a throbbing, urgent need. This was madness. This was perfect. Kazuha was a silent statue in the corner, her eyes wide, reflecting the phone’s light as she watched.

You moved behind Chaewon, the rough fabric of your trousers brushing against the bare skin of her thighs. She was warm, so warm. You guided yourself, finding her entrance with a blunt, unceremonious push. She was wet. Slick and hot and ready, her body betraying a readiness her sharp words hadn’t hinted at. A soft, punched-out sound escaped her lips as you entered her, a gasp that was half relief, half pain.

And then you were moving. There was no tenderness, no slow build. It was a frantic, driving rhythm, a physical exorcism of every frustrating meeting, every impossible deadline. The sound of skin slapping against skin, the rustle of clothing, Chaewon’s sharp, controlled breaths turning into ragged moans she tried to stifle by biting her own wrist. Her free hand scrabbled against the metal shelf, knocking over a box of staples.

You gripped her hip, your fingers digging into the soft flesh above the bunched fabric of her trousers. Your other hand found its way to her throat, not squeezing, just resting there, feeling the frantic jump of her pulse under your palm. She arched her back, pushing herself onto you harder, faster.

“Yes,” she hissed, the word a serpentine sound in the dark. “Just like that. Fuck this job. Fuck Yunjin.”

It was over quickly, a storm that broke with sudden, violent intensity. You buried your face in the crook of her neck, smelling her perfume and sweat, as your bodies tensed and shuddered in unison. For a few seconds, there was only the sound of heavy breathing in the dusty dark.

You pulled away, the reality of the situation crashing back. Chaewon straightened up, pulling her trousers and panties back into place with efficient, unembarrassed motions. She turned, her face flushed, her berry lipstick smeared slightly at the corner of her mouth. She looked at you, then at Kazuha, who hadn’t moved.

“Better,” Chaewon stated, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She picked up her phone, the light now feeling intrusive. “See you at the stand-up tomorrow.”

And she was gone, slipping out of the closet and leaving you and Kazuha in stunned silence.

The air felt charged, thick with the scent of sex and shame and a strange, exhilarating defiance. Kazuha finally moved, stepping away from the wall. In the faint light from under the door, you could see her expression wasn’t one of judgment, but of dawning comprehension.

“Well,” she said, her voice barely audible. “That’s one way to handle a performance review.”

A week passed. The incident in the supply closet wasn’t mentioned. It hung between the three of you like a shared, dirty secret, a circuit breaker that had been tripped. Work was the same soul-crushing grind. Yunjin’s demands were relentless. But something had shifted.

You caught Chaewon looking at you sometimes during meetings, her gaze lingering just a second too long, a ghost of that hungry smile on her lips. It was Kazuha, however, who surprised you.

It was another late night, just the two of you this time, battling a server migration that was going spectacularly wrong. The stress was a tangible thing, a metallic taste in your mouth. You’d been troubleshooting for five hours straight.

“I can’t,” Kazuha finally said, throwing her headset onto the desk. “My eyes are crossing. If I see one more error log, I’m going to scream.”

“Don’t scream. Yunjin might hear and give us more work,” you muttered, rubbing your temples.

Kazuha stood up and walked over to your desk. She didn’t have Chaewon’s predatory grace. Her energy was quieter, more coiled. She leaned against your desk, her thigh brushing your arm. She was wearing a soft, cream-colored sweater and a knee-length skirt.

“Chaewon was right, you know,” she said, her voice soft. “About needing a release.” She looked down at you, her dark eyes searching your face. “It’s all just… pressure. Up here.” She tapped her temple. “And down here.” Her hand drifted, almost unconsciously, to her lower stomach.

You stared up at her, the code on your monitor forgotten. “Kazuha…”

“I’ve never done anything like that,” she admitted, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “I’m the ‘good one’. The one who follows the rules. And look where it’s gotten me. I’m just as miserable as everyone else.” She bit her lip, a nervous habit you’d seen a hundred times before, but now it felt charged. “I think about it. What you two did. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

She reached out, her fingers tracing the line of your jaw. Her touch was tentative, exploring. “Would it be so wrong?” she whispered. “To feel good for a few minutes? To forget?”

This was different from Chaewon’s blunt demand. This was a question, an invitation wrapped in vulnerability. It was infinitely more dangerous. You stood up, the motion bringing you close to her. You could see the fine tremble in her lower lip.

You didn’t answer with words. You leaned in and kissed her.

It was nothing like the frantic, angry coupling in the supply closet. This was slow. Painfully slow. Her lips were soft, yielding at first, then parting with a small, surprised sigh. You tasted the coffee she’d been drinking, and something sweeter, uniquely her. Your hands came up to cradle her face, your thumbs stroking her cheeks as your mouths moved together in a deepening, searching rhythm.

One of your hands slid down, over the soft wool of her sweater, to the small of her back, pulling her gently against you. You could feel the warmth of her body through your clothes, the rapid beat of her heart. Her own hands came up to clutch at the fabric of your shirt, holding on as if she were adrift.

You broke the kiss, both of you breathing heavily. Her eyes were wide, dark pools in the dim office light. “The conference room,” she breathed. “The one on the south side. It has a lock.”

Hand in hand, you walked there, a silent, urgent procession. The empty halls felt like a dream. Inside the conference room, you flicked the lock and turned to her. The large glass table reflected the city lights bleeding in from the window.

This time, there was more undressing. Not all of it, but enough. You helped her out of her sweater, revealing a simple, lace-trimmed camisole beneath. You kissed her again, pushing her back gently until she was sitting on the edge of the massive table, the cool glass seeping through her skirt. You knelt before her, your hands sliding up her stocking-clad legs, feeling the powerful muscles of her thighs tense under your touch.

You kissed the inside of her knee, then higher, your mouth moving up the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. She gasped, her fingers tangling in your hair. You reached the hem of her skirt, pushed it up, and found her panties—simple cotton, now damp with her arousal. You mouthed her through the fabric, feeling her jump, hearing a low moan tear from her throat.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice shaking.

You hooked your fingers into the waistband of her panties and slid them down, just enough. You didn’t remove her skirt. You just created an access, a secret space in the shadowy folds of fabric. And then you lowered your head.

The first touch of your tongue made her cry out, a sharp, sweet sound that echoed in the empty room. She was different from Chaewon—softer, more responsive in a trembling, overwhelmed way. You licked a slow, broad stripe through her folds, savoring her taste, musky and clean. Her hands tightened in your hair, not pushing, just holding on.

You focused on her clit, circling it with the tip of your tongue, then sucking it gently between your lips. Her thighs trembled on either side of your head, trying to close, but you were there, holding them open. Her hips began to move, rocking in tiny, desperate circles against your mouth. You slid a hand up under her camisole, finding her breast, her nipple hardening instantly against your palm. You rolled it between your fingers as you continued to taste her, the twin sensations pulling ragged sobs from her.

“Oh, god… oh, fuck,” she chanted, her head thrown back, the cords of her neck standing out. “Don’t stop, please, please don’t stop…”

You didn’t. You drank her in, licking and sucking until her movements became frantic, until her pleas dissolved into wordless cries. Her orgasm hit her like a wave, her body bowing off the table, her thighs clamping around your ears as she shook, a long, silent scream on her lips before she collapsed back, panting.

You rested your forehead against her thigh, breathing heavily. The taste of her was on your lips, the scent of her filled your head. After a moment, she slid off the table, her legs wobbling, and sank to her knees in front of you. Her eyes were hazy with pleasure as she looked up at you, her smudged lipstick a dark bloom on her mouth.

“My turn,” she said, her voice husky.

Her hands went to your belt. This was new. This was reciprocal. As she worked you free, you realized the dynamic had irrevocably changed. This wasn’t a one-time stress relief. This was a pattern. A pact.

And you were a willing participant.

The next day felt different. The weight of the work was still there, a constant low-grade ache in your skull, but now it was layered over with a buzzing, feverish memory. The scent of Kazuha’s skin, the taste of Chaewon’s sweat. It was a secret fuel, burning quietly beneath the surface of spreadsheets and code reviews. You moved through the morning tasks in a haze, your mind replaying the conference room, the supply closet, the feel of bodies yielding under your hands.

Chaewon was at her desk, typing with a ferocious speed that seemed to mock the sluggish pace of your own thoughts. Kazuha was quieter, her movements deliberate, but you caught her glancing at you once, a quick flicker of her eyes that held a warmth you hadn’t seen before. It was noon when the first break came. Yunjin had declared a mandatory fifteen-minute “mental reset” period, a hollow corporate gesture that everyone used to scavenge for coffee or stare blankly at their phones.

You wandered into the break room, a sterile space of stainless steel appliances and beige walls. The smell of burnt popcorn lingered in the air. You poured yourself a cup of water from the cooler, the plastic cup feeling flimsy in your hand.

Chaewon appeared at the doorway, her silhouette sharp against the fluorescent hallway light. She didn’t look at the snacks or the coffee machine. She looked directly at you, her expression devoid of its usual brittle humor. It was flat, focused, predatory.

“You,” she said, her voice cutting through the quiet hum of the refrigerator. “Come here.”

She didn’t wait for you to respond. She turned and walked back into the hallway, but not toward the main office area. She headed for the smaller, secondary break room—a narrower space with a single counter, a sink, and a microwave. It was rarely used. You followed, your pulse kicking up a notch.

She pushed the door open, and you stepped in after her. She didn’t turn around. She walked to the counter, a laminate surface that ran along one wall, and placed her palms flat on it. She leaned forward, her back to you, her head bowed. The posture was deliberate, a statement.

“I didn’t get enough,” she said, her voice low and taut. “Last week was a tease. It scratched the surface. Today… today I feel like I’m going to tear someone’s head off if I don’t get fucked properly.”

She straightened slightly, turning her head to look at you over her shoulder. Her eyes were dark, intense. “This isn’t a negotiation. It’s a requirement. For my sanity. For yours, probably. Get over here and fuck me on this counter. Hard. Fast. No talking.”

The vulgarity of the demand, stripped of any pretense of romance or seduction, was a shockwave that went straight to your gut. You felt your cock stir, thickening against the fabric of your trousers, a blunt, obedient response to her raw command. You moved toward her, the small room shrinking around you, filled only with the scent of her perfume and the aggressive energy she radiated.

She didn’t adjust her clothes. She kept her sleek black trousers on, her heeled boots planted firmly on the tile floor. She simply hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her trousers and her panties—black lace again, you knew without seeing—and shoved them down just enough. The fabric slid past the curve of her hips, bunching around the tops of her thighs, creating a narrow window of exposed skin. The pale swell of her ass, the shadowed cleft, the dark hair of her pussy just visible.

“Now,” she breathed, the word a final punctuation.

You unbuttoned your own trousers, your movements quicker this time, less clumsy. You freed yourself, your cock already hard, standing thick and eager against your stomach. You stepped up behind her, the rough wool of your trousers brushing against the smooth skin of her thighs. You placed a hand on her hip, feeling the firm muscle beneath. The other hand you brought to her throat, not to choke, but to hold, to claim a bit of control in this storm she was orchestrating. Your palm felt the rapid flutter of her pulse.

You guided yourself to her entrance, finding it slick and hot even before contact. She was wet, a ready, welcoming heat that defied her aggressive tone. You pushed into her without ceremony, a single, deep thrust that buried you inside her to the root.

A sharp, guttural sound tore from her throat, a mix of pain and profound relief. Her body arched, her back bowing, her hands gripping the edge of the counter for stability. You began to move immediately, a driving, punishing rhythm that had no patience for gentle exploration. Each thrust was a solid, heavy impact, your hips hammering against the backs of her thighs, the sound of your bodies colliding a wet, rhythmic slap in the small room.

Chaewon’s breath came in ragged, torn gasps. She pushed back against you, meeting every thrust with a fierce counter-force, her hips rocking to take you deeper. “Faster,” she snarled, her voice strained. “Harder. Fuck me like you hate this job.”

You obliged. Your grip on her hip tightened, your fingers digging into her flesh. Your other hand stayed at her throat, feeling her swallow, feeling her muscles tense as she absorbed each plunge. The angle was deep, each push grinding your cockhead against the innermost parts of her, a brutal pressure that made her gasp and curse.

“Yes… fuck, yes…” she moaned, her words dissolving into a stream of filthy encouragement. “Use me. Just use me. Pound this fucking stress out of me.”

The counter shook under her weight. A mug sitting near the sink rattled. The world outside this room—the deadlines, the emails, Yunjin’s voice—disintegrated into a white noise behind the pounding beat of this raw, physical exorcism. You fucked her with a single-minded intensity, your own stress, your own coiled frustration, translating directly into the force of your thrusts. Sweat beaded on your forehead, dripped down your back. Her perfume mingled with the salty, musky scent of sex, of exertion, of release.

You felt her pussy begin to clench around you, a series of tight, involuntary spasms that gripped your shaft. Her breathing turned jagged, erratic. “I’m… I’m gonna…” she choked out, her body tensing, her fingers scrabbling at the laminate countertop.

You didn’t slow. You kept fucking her, pushing her through that threshold. Her orgasm hit her violently, a convulsion that rippled through her entire frame. Her thighs shook, her back arched impossibly high, and a sharp, guttural cry erupted from her, loud and unfiltered in the small room. Her pussy clamped down on you, a series of rapid, fluttering contractions that felt like a velvet fist milking your cock.

As her climax subsided into trembling aftershocks, you felt your own peak approaching, a tidal pressure building in your balls. You drove into her one last time, burying yourself as deep as you could go, and let go. A hot, urgent rush flooded out of you, filling her, a thick pulse of release that seemed to echo the frantic rhythm of your thrusts. You stayed there, pressed against her, your cock twitching inside her as the last of your cum spilled into her depths.

For a few seconds, there was only the sound of heavy, labored breathing, the hum of the refrigerator, and the wet, intimate sound of your bodies still joined.

Then, a new sound. A soft, hesitant clearing of a throat.

You both turned your heads, still connected, to see Kazuha standing at the open doorway. She hadn’t entered. She was just there, watching. Her face was flushed, her lips parted. Her eyes were wide, fixed on the scene—Chaewon bent over the counter, trousers and panties bunched at her thighs, your hand still on her throat, your body still flush against her backside.

Chaewon, still panting, let out a low, breathless laugh. “See something you like?” she rasped, her voice hoarse.

Kazuha didn’t answer immediately. She stepped into the room, closing the door behind her with a soft click. The space was now crowded with three bodies, the air thick with sex and sweat. She looked at Chaewon, then at you, her expression a complex tapestry of shock, envy, and a hungry curiosity that mirrored Chaewon’s own earlier look.

“I didn’t want to miss out,” Kazuha said softly, her voice trembling slightly. “I was… walking by. I heard.”

Chaewon slowly straightened, pushing you back with a slight shift of her hips. You withdrew, your cock slick and glistening, dripping with a mix of her fluids and your own. Chaewon pulled her trousers and panties back up with that same efficient, unembarrassed motion. She turned to face Kazuha, her face still flushed, her lipstick smeared.

“It’s not a private club,” Chaewon said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Membership is open. Stress is the only prerequisite.”

Kazuha’s gaze dropped to your still-exposed cock, then back up to your face. Her own need was palpable, a quiet vibration in the air. “I feel it too,” she admitted. “All day. Since yesterday… it’s just sitting there, in my stomach. A knot.”

Chaewon smirked. “Well, we have a solution for knots.” She looked at you. “You’re not done, are you?”

You weren’t. The sight of Kazuha, her vulnerability mixed with this new, bold hunger, reignited the fire in your gut. You stepped toward her, and she didn’t retreat. She stepped closer, her body almost touching yours.

“What do you want?” you asked her, your voice rough.

She looked down, then up, meeting your eyes with a newfound resolve. “I want… what she got. But… different.” Her hands came up, trembling, to the buttons of her blouse. She began to undo them, one by one. “I want to feel… everything.”

Chaewon watched, her eyes gleaming with a feral interest. “This room is too small for just standing,” she observed. She gestured to the floor. “Get creative.”

The suggestion hung in the air, a catalyst. Kazuha finished unbuttoning her blouse, letting it hang open to reveal a simple white camisole beneath. She didn’t remove it. She just let it hang, an open invitation. Then she knelt on the tile floor, the cool surface probably uncomfortable, but she didn’t seem to care. She looked up at you, her eyes pleading.

Chaewon moved too. She came to stand beside Kazuha, then lowered herself to the floor as well, mirroring Kazuha’s position. They knelt side by side, facing you, their faces level with your groin. The visual was staggering—Chaewon’s sharp, predatory beauty and Kazuha’s softer, earnest need, both focused on the same target.

“Sixty-nine,” Chaewon said, her tone instructional. “But with a plus one.” She glanced at Kazuha. “You take him. I’ll take you.”

Kazuha’s eyes widened, but she nodded, a slow, accepting motion. She understood. She leaned forward, her hands reaching for your cock. Her touch was softer than Chaewon’s, more exploratory. She gripped your shaft, her fingers stroking the length, feeling the thickness that made her own fingers seem small. She brought her mouth to the head, her lips parting, and took you inside.

The sensation was immediate and intense—the warm, wet seal of her mouth, the gentle pressure of her tongue sliding along your underside. You groaned, a deep sound that echoed in the room.

Chaewon didn’t wait. She shifted her position, turning to face Kazuha’s lower body. Kazuha was still in her skirt, a knee-length, conservative office garment. Chaewon simply pushed the fabric up, bunching it around Kazuha’s waist, exposing her thighs and her simple cotton panties. Chaewon didn’t bother removing them. She hooked her fingers into the side, pulled them aside, and dove in.

Kazuha gasped, the sensation of Chaewon’s mouth on her pussy interrupting her focus on you. Her head jerked back slightly, but Chaewon’s hands held her hips firmly, keeping her in place. Chaewon’s technique was different from yours—aggressive, direct, her tongue moving with a ruthless efficiency. Kazuha moaned, a sound muffled by your cock still in her mouth, her body trembling.

You watched, your hand coming to rest on Kazuha’s head, fingers threading through her dark hair. Chaewon’s head was buried between Kazuha’s thighs, her blonde hair swaying as she worked. Kazuha, in turn, was sucking you with a growing desperation, her mouth moving down your shaft, taking more of you in, her cheeks hollowing as she tried to accommodate your thickness. Her face strained with the effort, her jaw working, her eyes squeezed shut in concentration.

Chaewon’s hands moved from Kazuha’s hips to her own trousers. She unbuttoned them again, pushed them down just past her ass, and then guided your free hand to her. You understood. While Kazuha sucked your cock, and Chaewon ate Kazuha’s pussy, you would touch Chaewon. The “plus one.”

You reached down, your fingers finding Chaewon’s exposed wetness. She was already slick, swollen from your earlier fucking. You slid a finger inside her, then two, feeling her inner muscles clench around your intrusion. She groaned against Kazuha’s flesh, her rhythm becoming more frantic, her tongue driving harder against Kazuha’s clit.

It was a circuit of sensation—a feedback loop of pleasure. Kazuha’s moans, vibrating around your cock, spurred Chaewon’s efforts, which made Kazuha buck and writhe, which made her suck you harder and deeper, which made your fingers work Chaewon more intensely. The room filled with the sounds of wet, sloppy sucking, of Chaewon’s hungry licks, of Kazuha’s choked gasps, of your own ragged breathing.

Chaewon’s head moved with a relentless pace, her tongue spearing into Kazuha’s folds, then circling her clit, then plunging back in. Kazuha’s body began to convulse, her thighs shaking, her hips trying to thrust against Chaewon’s face. Chaewon held her firm, eating her with a voracious hunger that seemed to consume Kazuha’s stress, her tension, her pent-up energy, transforming it into raw, physical release.

Kazuha’s orgasm arrived with a silent, shuddering intensity. Her body locked, her back arching, her mouth clamping down on your cock in a sudden, tight suction. A flood of wetness spilled from her, soaking Chaewon’s chin, dripping onto the tile floor. Kazuha cried out, the sound garbled around your shaft, as she trembled through the peak.

Chaewon didn’t stop. She kept lapping at Kazuha, drinking in her climax, her own hips rocking against your hand. You added a third finger inside her, stretching her, feeling her pussy grasp and release around your digits. Chaewon’s own moans grew louder, more urgent.

Kazuha, recovering, renewed her efforts on your cock. Her mouth moved with a frantic, needy pace now, her tongue swirling around your head, her hand pumping the base of your shaft. She looked up at you, her eyes tear-filled and hazy, a silent plea for you to finish.

Chaewon pulled her face back from Kazuha’s thighs, her chin glistening. She looked at you, her eyes wild. “Now fuck her,” she commanded, her voice thick with her own arousal. “While I watch. While I feel you in me.”

You pulled back from Kazuha’s mouth, your cock dripping with her saliva. Kazuha collapsed back onto her heels, panting, her blouse hanging open, her camisole damp with sweat. Chaewon shifted, moving to sit against the wall, her trousers still bunched at her thighs, her pussy exposed and glistening from your fingers. She spread her legs, an open invitation.

You turned to Kazuha. She understood. She moved, not to stand, but to position herself on her knees, facing Chaewon. She leaned forward, bracing her hands on Chaewon’s thighs, and lowered her head between Chaewon’s legs. She took Chaewon’s pussy into her mouth, mimicking what Chaewon had done to her.

Chaewon groaned, her head tilting back against the wall. “Fuck yeah,” she breathed, her hands coming to Kazuha’s head, guiding her.

You moved behind Kazuha. Her skirt was still bunched up around her waist, her panties pulled aside. Her pussy was swollen, wet, open from Chaewon’s ministrations and her own orgasm. You positioned yourself, your cock finding her entrance with ease. You pushed into her, a deep, smooth penetration that made her cry out, the sound muffled by Chaewon’s flesh.

You began to fuck her, a slower rhythm now but still firm, still deep. Each thrust pushed Kazuha forward, her mouth driving deeper into Chaewon. Each withdrawal pulled her back, her lips leaving Chaewon briefly before diving back in. It was a synchronized motion—your hips pumping, Kazuha’s body rocking, Chaewon’s hips lifting to meet Kazuha’s mouth.

Chaewon’s hands gripped Kazuha’s hair, holding her in place as Kazuha licked and sucked. Chaewon’s eyes were locked on you, watching your cock slide into Kazuha, watching your body move. “Look at that,” Chaewon moaned, her voice ragged. “Look at you fucking her while she eats me. God, that’s hot.”

You focused on Kazuha, on the feel of her tight, wet channel around you, on the way her body yielded to each thrust. You reached around her, your hands finding her breasts under her open blouse and camisole. You squeezed them, feeling her nipples harden against your palms. Kazuha moaned again, the vibration traveling through her mouth into Chaewon’s core.

Chaewon’s breathing became frantic. “I’m close… fuck, Kazuha, don’t stop… and you… fuck her harder…”

You obeyed, increasing your pace, your thrusts becoming more forceful, more demanding. Kazuha’s body shook with each impact, her ass slapping against your thighs, her moans growing louder, less controlled. Chaewon’s thighs tensed, her hips bucking against Kazuha’s face. Her head thrashed back against the wall.

“Now,” Chaewon snarled, her body convulsing. “Fuck, now!”

Kazuha redoubled her efforts, her tongue driving deep, her lips sucking hard. Chaewon’s orgasm erupted—a sharp, loud cry that filled the room, her body stiffening, her pussy clenching around Kazuha’s tongue. A fresh gush of wetness spilled from her, soaking Kazuha’s chin.

The sight, the sounds, the feel of Kazuha tightening around your cock as she witnessed Chaewon’s climax—it pushed you over your own edge. You gripped Kazuha’s hips, holding her steady, and drove into her one final, deep time. You buried yourself as far as you could go, feeling your cockhead press against the deepest part of her, a pressure that made her gasp and shudder. Then you let go.

Your release was a flood, a hot, urgent rush that filled Kazuha’s pussy, spilling deep into her. You kept thrusting through it, pumping your cum into her, feeling her inner muscles flutter and grasp around your shaft as she received you. She moaned, a long, trembling sound, her body accepting every pulse.

When you finally slowed, pulling out slowly, the room was a tableau of exhausted, sweaty bodies. Kazuha collapsed forward, her head resting on Chaewon’s thigh, panting. Chaewon slumped against the wall, her eyes closed, a sheen of sweat on her forehead. You stood, your cock slick and dripping, the air thick with the musk of sex—sweet, salty, profoundly human.

For a long minute, no one spoke. The only sounds were the ragged draws of breath, the hum of the appliances, the drip of fluids onto the tile.

Chaewon finally opened her eyes. She looked at Kazuha, then at you, and a slow, genuine smile spread across her face—not the brittle, hungry smirk from before, but something softer, more satisfied. “Well,” she said, her voice hoarse but bright. “That definitely cleared my head.”

Kazuha lifted her head, her face a mess of sweat, saliva, and Chaewon’s fluids. She smiled too, a shy, dazed grin. “Mine too.”

You pulled your clothes back into some semblance of order, your body humming with a deep, satiated fatigue that was entirely different from the work-induced exhaustion. The three of you helped each other up, straightened clothing, wiped faces with paper towels from the sink. There was a strange camaraderie in the aftermath, a shared secret that felt heavier, more binding, than before.

You left the break room together, walking back into the main office area. The fluorescent lights felt different now, less oppressive. The hum of computers was just background noise. You returned to your desks, to your screens, to the unfinished code.

But the rest of the day was transformed. Chaewon typed with a relaxed, almost playful speed. Kazuha moved with a quiet confidence. You found yourself solving problems with a clarity that had been missing for weeks. You exchanged glances, small smiles that held a world of meaning. Their hair was messy, strands escaping from careful styles. Their clothes were damp with sweat, blouses clinging to skin, skirts wrinkled. And underneath their clothing, their pussies were wet, filled with your cum, a secret warmth they carried through the afternoon.

The dopamine from the encounter was a palpable drug, brightening their moods, softening the edges of Yunjin’s harsh emails. They laughed at things that weren’t funny, smirked at passing colleagues, shared a private, knowing look across the aisle. The stress was still there, but it was background noise now, drowned out by the lingering echo of flesh and pleasure.

At 5:03 PM, as you were packing up your laptop, your phone buzzed with a notification. You glanced at it. An Instagram DM. A new group. Kazuha had created it. The group name was just a period, a simple dot. The members were you, Chaewon, and Kazuha.

The first message appeared, from Kazuha.

“My apartment. Tonight. 8 PM. No excuses.”

A second message, from Chaewon, followed immediately.

“Bring your fucking stamina.”

The elevator hummed, a low mechanical purr that did nothing to calm the frantic drumming in your chest. The plastic bag in your hand felt absurdly light, the bottles of soju and wine within clinking softly with each movement. You were late. Not fashionably late. Stressfully late. The clock on your phone had mocked you all through the stalled traffic, the frantic stop at the liquor store, the sprint to Kazuha’s building. Now, standing in the mirrored elevator, you saw your own reflection—hair slightly mussed, shirt wrinkled from the day, eyes holding a wild, anticipatory gleam.

The doors slid open on the fourteenth floor. And there she was.

Kazuha leaned against the wall opposite the elevator, a vision that made your throat go dry. She wasn’t in office attire. The risky, sexy red lace bikini was more a series of strategic connections than actual clothing. Tiny triangles of crimson lace barely contained the full, pale swell of her breasts, the nipples visibly peaked and dark beneath the sheer fabric. A matching scrap of lace sat low on her hips, doing little to hide the neat triangle of dark hair beneath. Over it all, she wore a black lace robe, utterly see-through, the gossamer fabric doing nothing but adding a layer of tantalizing shadow to her form. The robe hung open, revealing the entirety of the bikini and the smooth, toned planes of her stomach.

Her face broke into a smile that was both sweet and dangerously knowing. “You made it,” she breathed, her voice a husky whisper. She pushed off the wall and closed the distance between you in two graceful steps. The scent of her hit you—jasmine and something warmer, skin-warmed and intimate.

She didn’t wait for you to speak. She took your free hand in both of hers, her fingers cool and soft. She tugged you gently out of the elevator and down the plush, silent hallway. As you walked, she pressed herself against your side, her head tilting to nuzzle into the crook of your neck. Her lips brushed your skin, a ghost of a touch.

“Mmm. You’re warm,” she murmured. Her breath was hot. “What did you bring us?”

You managed to lift the bag. “Soju. And a cabernet. I wasn’t sure…”

“Perfect,” she interrupted, her teeth grazing your earlobe in a gentle bite that sent a jolt straight to your groin. “We’ll need the fuel.”

She stopped at a door, number 1407, and produced a key. With a click, she pushed it open, still holding your hand, and pulled you inside.

The apartment was warm, dimly lit by a few lamps, smelling of sandalwood incense and clean linen. And in the center of the living room, caught in a pool of golden light from a floor lamp, was Chaewon.

She was in the process of stepping into a pair of black lace panties, the fabric sheer and intricate. She hadn’t yet put on the matching bra, which lay discarded on the back of a sofa. Her small, pert breasts were bare, the nipples a deep, flushed pink and already hardened. She froze, one foot through the panty leg, and looked up as you entered.

Her face, which had been focused, transformed. Her eyes, sharp and intense, lit up with a predatory delight. She finished pulling the panties up, the lace settling high on her hips, and then she was stalking toward you, completely topless, her movements a fluid, confident prowl.

“Why the hell are you so fucking late?” she demanded, but she was smiling, a wide, wicked grin. She didn’t stop until she was right in front of you. She smacked your arm, a playful but stinging slap. “You’ve been making us wait. We’ve been sitting here, thinking about you, getting all… worked up.”

Her gaze dropped pointedly to your trousers. You could feel your cock, thick and heavy, already straining against the zipper, twitching violently at the dual presence of them—Kazuha’s soft, perfumed warmth at your side, Chaewon’s bare-chested, aggressive energy in front of you. The air in the room felt charged, thick with intention.

You swallowed, your mouth suddenly dry. “Traffic,” you managed, the word sounding weak.

Chaewon scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Excuses.” She reached out and plucked the bag from your hand, her fingers brushing yours. She peered inside. “Good. Now, clothes. Off. We’re not doing this with you dressed like you’re still at your desk.”

But Kazuha was already moving. While Chaewon turned to place the bottles on a low coffee table, Kazuha stepped in front of you. Her hands came up to frame your face. Her eyes, dark and liquid, searched yours.

“Ignore her,” Kazuha whispered, her voice trembling with a need that felt raw, untamed. “She’s just impatient. I’ve been waiting too. Thinking about your hands. Your mouth.” She leaned in, her lips hovering just a breath from yours. “Fuck me up. Use me however you want. I need it. I need to feel… owned.”

Her kiss wasn’t gentle. It was a hungry, open-mouthed collision, her tongue sliding against yours with a desperate urgency. The taste of her was mint and wine. Her hands slid from your face into your hair, gripping tightly, pulling you deeper into the kiss. The sheer robe slipped from one of her shoulders, baring the red lace strap and the smooth curve of her shoulder.

A low, approving chuckle came from Chaewon. “That’s my girl. No more good-girl bullshit.”

The kiss broke, and Kazuha was panting, her lips swollen and glistening. “Please,” she breathed, the word a plea that bypassed your brain and went straight to your cock.

You didn’t hesitate. You bent, sliding one arm behind her knees, the other around her back, and lifted her. She was light, her body yielding as she wrapped her arms around your neck, her legs around your waist. The flimsy robe fell open completely, and the heat of her core, separated from you by just a whisper of red lace, pressed against your stomach. You carried her, following her murmured directions, through an archway into a bedroom.

It was Kazuha’s space—softer, with cream-colored bedding and a large, inviting bed. You laid her down on the duvet, her dark hair fanning out around her. You followed her down, your body covering hers, and your mouth found her neck. You kissed, then sucked, then bit down gently on the tender skin where her neck met her shoulder. She cried out, a sharp, beautiful sound, her back arching, pushing her lace-covered breasts against your chest.

“Yes,” she hissed, her hands scrabbling at your shirt. “More. Mark me.”

You complied, leaving a rosy bloom on her skin, your lips traveling lower, over her collarbone, toward the tempting swell of her breasts. But you didn’t stop there. You moved down her body, your hands pushing the open robe completely out of the way. You hooked your fingers into the sides of her tiny red lace panties. She lifted her hips, a silent, eager cooperation, and you pulled them down her thighs, past her knees, and off, tossing them aside. They landed on the floor with a soft, insignificant whisper.

Now she was bare from the waist down, the black lace robe framing her nakedness like a sinful portrait. Her thighs fell open, an invitation. The sight of her pussy, already glistening, the lips swollen and parted, the dark, neat curls damp, made your own breath catch. You settled between her legs, your hands sliding under her thighs, pushing them wider, lifting them to rest over your shoulders. The position opened her completely, exposing every delicate, wet fold to your gaze.

You didn’t tease. You leaned in and buried your face in her.

The first, broad stroke of your tongue from her entrance all the way up to her clit was a revelation. She tasted clean, musky, intensely female. A sharp, guttural moan tore from her throat, and her hands flew to your head, her fingers tangling in your hair, not to push you away, but to hold you there. “Oh god, right there, fuck, your tongue…”

You ate her with a single-minded hunger, your own stress and the day’s tension dissolving into this act of worship. Your tongue delved into her entrance, fucking into her with short, firm strokes, gathering her wetness. You circled her opening, then moved upward, focusing on her clit. You sucked the stiff, swollen bud into your mouth, applying gentle pressure with your lips while your tongue flicked rapidly over the tip.

Kazuha’s body became a live wire. Her hips bucked off the bed, trying to grind against your face. Her thighs tightened around your head, trembling with the strain. A stream of filthy, broken praise fell from her lips. “Yes, like that, suck it, lick me, don’t stop, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come all over your fucking face…”

You added a finger, sliding it easily into her sopping channel alongside your tongue. You curled it, searching, and found that rough, spongy spot inside her. You pressed against it, rhythmically, in time with the flicks of your tongue on her clit.

Her reaction was instantaneous and violent. Her back bowed off the mattress, a strangled scream ripping from her lungs. Her pussy clenched around your finger in a series of brutal, rhythmic pulses, and a gush of hot, clear fluid erupted from her, soaking your chin, your mouth, dripping down onto the duvet beneath her. She squirted, the release sudden and profuse, a testament to the intensity of her climax. Her legs shook uncontrollably, her heels digging into your back as she rode out the wave, her cries dissolving into shuddering, helpless sobs.

You kept your mouth on her, drinking her in, licking her through the aftershocks until she was whimpering and pushing weakly at your head, oversensitive.

A weight dipped the bed beside you. You looked up, your face wet, to see Chaewon. She had shed her panties and was now completely naked except for the black lace bra she’d finally put on. She knelt next to Kazuha’s head, her eyes dark with lust.

“My turn to play,” Chaewon purred. She leaned down, her small breasts swaying, and took one of Kazuha’s peaked, lace-covered nipples into her mouth. She sucked hard, her teeth grazing the sensitive nub through the fabric.

Kazuha, still spasming from her orgasm, jolted again, a fresh moan breaking from her. “Chaewon… fuck…”

“Shhh,” Chaewon murmured, switching to the other nipple, sucking just as fiercely. “Just feel it. He’s not done with you.”

She was right. The sight of Chaewon sucking Kazuha’s tits while you were between her legs, the taste of Kazuha’s climax still on your lips, drove you into a frenzy. You pulled back, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. You needed to be inside her. Now.

You moved up her body, your knees pushing her thighs wide. You fumbled with your belt, your button, your zipper, your fingers clumsy with need. Chaewon, noticing, chuckled against Kazuha’s breast. She reached over, her hand deft and sure, and finished the job for you. She yanked your trousers and boxers down just enough to free your cock.

It sprang out, fully erect, thick and veined, the head already flushed a deep purple and beaded with precum. Chaewon’s eyes widened appreciatively. “Fuck, look at that,” she breathed. “No wonder she’s a mess.”

You didn’t need guidance. You positioned yourself at Kazuha’s entrance, which was swollen, puffy, and dripping wet from her orgasm and your mouth. You looked down at her. Her face was flushed, her lips parted, her eyes glazed and fixed on yours. She reached down between her own legs, her fingers spreading her folds wider for you, an invitation that was almost obscene.

“Breed me,” she whispered, the words raw and desperate. “Please. I need to feel you fill me up. I want it. I want your cum so deep inside me it never leaves.”

The crude, primal demand shattered your last shred of control. You gripped her hips, your fingers digging into the soft flesh of her thighs, and you shoved into her.

The penetration was a blunt, overwhelming stretch. She was tight, incredibly so, but so wet that your cock sank in, a slow, inexorable invasion that made her eyes roll back. You buried yourself to the hilt in one long, deep thrust, your pelvis meeting hers with a soft, wet smack. You were sheathed completely inside her, your cockhead pressing insistently against the deepest part of her, a pressure that felt like it was bruising her cervix.

“Fuuuuck,” Kazuha wailed, her body accepting the intrusion with a full-body shudder. Her inner walls fluttered and clenched around you, a desperate, velvety grip.

You began to move. You fucked her with a slow, deep, punishing rhythm, each withdrawal almost complete before plunging back in to that same profound depth. The angle was perfect, the head of your cock grinding against her cervix with every inward stroke. The wet, slapping sounds of your bodies meeting filled the room, a lewd soundtrack to the scene.

Kazuha was incoherent. Her hands flew to her own breasts, pinching and pulling at her nipples through the red lace. Her head thrashed side to side on the pillow. Chaewon watched, rapt, her own hand slipping between her legs, her fingers working her clit in fast, tight circles as she observed you claiming Kazuha.

“Look at her take it,” Chaewon moaned, her voice ragged. “Look at how your fat cock is splitting her open. She loves it. She’s a fucking breeding slut for you.”

Kazuha could only nod frantically, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. “Yes! Yes, I am! More! Harder! Make me yours!”

You obliged. Your pace increased, the thrusts becoming faster, harder, more animalistic. Your balls slapped against her ass with each drive. The bedframe began a rhythmic creak of protest. You leaned forward, bracing yourself on your hands beside her head, your body covering hers. Your faces were inches apart. You could see every flicker of pleasure and pain in her eyes.

“You want my cum?” you growled, the words coming out rough, foreign to your own ears. “You want me to knock you up?”

“Yes!” she screamed, her legs locking around your waist, her heels digging into your ass, trying to pull you even deeper. “Do it! Fill my fucking womb! I don’t care! Just give it to me!”

The visual, the feel, the filthy, breeding-focused demands pushed you to the brink. You felt the telltale tightening in your balls, the heat coiling at the base of your spine. You drove into her one last, final time, hilting yourself so deep you felt your pubic bone grind against her clit. You held there, buried to the root, as your orgasm erupted.

It was a volcanic release. Thick, hot pulses of cum shot from your cock, directly into her depths, flooding her channel, spurting against her waiting cervix. You groaned, a deep, guttural sound of absolute release, as you emptied yourself into her. Kazuha felt it. Her eyes flew wide, a look of shock and profound satisfaction crossing her face as she felt the hot rush filling her. Her own body clenched around you in a second, lesser orgasm, her pussy milking your cock for every last drop.

You collapsed on top of her, spent, your cock still twitching inside her, still plugged deep, keeping your cum contained within her. For a long moment, there was only the sound of ragged, panting breaths.

Chaewon’s voice broke the silence, husky with her own arousal. “My turn.”

You slowly, reluctantly, pulled out of Kazuha. A soft, wet sound accompanied your withdrawal, and a trickle of your mixed fluids—her slickness and your cum—escaped her, staining the cream duvet beneath her. Kazuha made a soft, disappointed sound but didn’t move, her body boneless, her eyes closed in satiated bliss.

You turned to Chaewon. She was on her knees on the bed, her back to you. She had pushed her lace bra up, exposing her small breasts, and was looking at you over her shoulder. Her expression was pure, unadulterated lust.

“I want you to fuck me rough, daddy,” she said, her voice low and commanding. She reached back, spreading the cheeks of her ass with both hands, offering you a view of her tight, pink asshole and, just below, her glistening, swollen pussy lips. “This hole of mine is yours. Wreck it.”

A sliver of rationality pierced the haze. You remembered the boyfriend. The pictures on her desk. The normalcy that existed outside this bubble of stress and sex.

“Are you sure about this, Chae?” you asked, your voice still rough.

She froze, her brow furrowing in genuine confusion. She turned her upper body to look at you more fully. “What’s wrong?”

“You have a boyfriend,” you said, the words feeling stupid and out of place in this den of sin.

Chaewon’s confusion melted into a look of utter contempt. She let out a short, sharp laugh. “Fuck him,” she spat. “His dick is so tiny, it couldn’t even reach the entrance. It’s like being poked with a fucking pencil.” She turned fully now, crawling toward you on the bed until her face was close to yours. Her eyes were blazing. “I want you. I want this.” Her hand reached down, wrapping around your cock, which was still semi-hard, slick with Kazuha’s juices and your own cum. She pumped it firmly, and it responded, thickening rapidly in her grip. “So forget about that loser. I want a real man. And I want you to breed me, as much as you just bred Kazuha. I want to feel your cum dripping out of me tomorrow at my desk.”

Any hesitation evaporated, burned away by the sheer, vulgar force of her desire. You grabbed her, flipping her onto her back. You didn’t kiss her. You pinned her wrists above her head with one hand. With the other, you guided your cock to her entrance. She was wet, but tighter than Kazuha, her muscles coiled with a different kind of tension.

“You want it rough?” you growled.

“Fucking destroy me,” she challenged, her eyes locked on yours, defiant.

You slammed into her.

It was a brutal, punishing penetration. She gasped, her body arching, but she didn’t look away. You set a furious pace from the start, your hips pistoning, your thighs slamming against hers. The sound was louder, harder, a wet, meaty smacking that echoed in the room. You released her wrists, and your hand went to her throat, not squeezing enough to cut off air, but applying a firm, dominant pressure that made her pulse hammer against your palm.

“Is this what you wanted?” you grunted, fucking her with deep, jackhammer strokes.

“Yes! Harder! Choke me, you fucking bastard!” she screamed, her own hands flying to your forearm, not to pull it away, but to hold it there, to feel the pressure.

You spanked her ass, your palm connecting with the pale flesh of her cheek with a sharp crack. A red handprint bloomed instantly. She cried out, a sound of pure ecstasy. You spanked her again, on the other side.

Your rhythm was relentless, a machine-like fucking that focused on pure, deep penetration. Her pussy was a tight, hot vice, gripping your cock with a fierce intensity. You could feel her walls straining to accommodate your thickness, stretching around you with each brutal thrust.

“You feel that?” you gasped. “You feel how deep I am? I’m hitting your fucking cervix, Chaewon. I’m gonna break through it.”

“Do it!” she shrieked, her body beginning to tremble beneath you. Her eyes were wild, unfocused. “Fuck my womb! Fill it up!”

Her arousal was a waterfall. With each thrust, a fresh gush of her fluids spilled out, soaking the sheets beneath her, mingling with the mess already there from Kazuha. The squelching sounds were obscenely loud. Her body began to seize, her orgasm building not from gentle stimulation but from this raw, brutal pounding.

“I’m gonna squirt!” she warned, her voice a strained rasp. “Oh god, I’m gonna fucking drown you!”

You didn’t let up. You fucked her through it. Her back arched violently, her mouth opened in a silent scream for a second before a guttural, ragged cry tore free. And then it happened. A torrent of clear fluid erupted from her, not in a gentle trickle but in a sudden, shocking flood. It gushed over your cock, your balls, soaking the sheets in a wide, dark patch. She squirted violently, her body convulsing, her pussy clenching and fluttering around your shaft in erratic, powerful spasms.

The sensation of her hot release, combined with the visual of her losing complete control, sent you over the edge again. You buried yourself to the hilt, your cockhead mashing against her cervix, and roared as you came. Your second load shot into her, a slightly thinner but no less voluminous flood, mixing with her own fluids inside her already-stretched channel. You pumped into her, spurting jet after jet, claiming her just as she’d demanded.

As the last pulses faded, you collapsed beside her, both of you gasping, dripping, utterly wrecked.

A warm, soft body pressed against your side. Kazuha. She had recovered enough to move. She curled into you, her head on your chest, one hand lazily tracing circles on your sweat-slicked skin. She leaned up and kissed you, a slow, deep, sensual kiss that tasted of sex and shared exhaustion. Her other hand drifted down, her fingers gently stroking your spent, sensitive cock, which lay heavy and softening on your thigh.

“Mmm,” she hummed against your lips. “You’re incredible.”

Chaewon, still panting, rolled onto her side to face you. A slow, sated, utterly genuine smile spread across her face. She reached out, her fingers intertwining with yours on the damp sheet. She didn’t say anything. She just held your hand, her grip firm, her eyes soft in a way you’d never seen before.

The night was still young. Your body was tired, but a low, simmering energy still hummed beneath the surface. The bed was a ruined landscape of soaked, wrinkled sheets, stained with sweat, saliva, squirt, and cum. The three of you lay tangled together in the aftermath, a sweaty, sticky, sated knot of limbs and quiet breaths.

Pushing yourself up, you winced at the stiffness. You found your discarded shorts and t-shirt on the floor and pulled them on, the soft cotton feeling alien against your skin after so much naked intimacy. The living area of the bungalow was quiet, awash in sunlight. The low table was cleared of last night’s bottles, the cushions neatly arranged. It was as if the passionate chaos of the Truth or Dare game had never happened.

Then you heard it. The rapid, soft tap-tap-tap of fingers on a laptop keyboard. You followed the sound to the small, modern kitchenette that adjoined the living space.

Su-A was there, perched on a stool at the breakfast bar, her back to you. She was already dressed for the day in sleek, charcoal-grey athleisure—a fitted zip-up jacket and matching leggings that showcased her toned figure. Her dark hair was pulled into a severe, high ponytail. Her laptop was open, a spreadsheet glowing on the screen, and a half-empty mug of black coffee sat steaming beside it. She was engrossed, frowning slightly at something on the display.

You watched her for a second. This was a different Su-A from the provocative orchestrator of last night. This was the Su-A who had a life, a career, responsibilities waiting back home. The transition was jarring.

“Noona?” you said, your voice raspy from sleep.

She didn’t jump, just finished typing a line before swiveling on the stool to face you. Her expression was focused, but it softened around the edges when she saw you. “Morning, sleepyhead. Or should I say, afternoon?” She glanced at a delicate silver watch on her wrist. “It’s almost eleven.”

“Eleven?” You ran a hand through your hair. “Why didn’t anyone wake me?”

“You looked like you needed the sleep,” she said, a ghost of her trademark teasing smile playing on her lips. “It was a… big night.” She turned back to her laptop, her fingers resuming their tapping. “Ryujin and Karina went for a walk along the waterline about an hour ago. Said they needed some air.”

“Oh.” You shifted your weight, feeling suddenly awkward. “Are you… working?”

“Mhm. Just tying up a few loose ends for a client. Crisis never takes a vacation, apparently.” She sighed, not looking up. “I told them I was offline for three days, but of course, the world doesn’t stop.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, but you caught the faint strain of irritation beneath it.

You glanced at the kitchen counter. Aside from her coffee mug, there was nothing. No plate, no crumbs, no evidence of food. “Did you eat breakfast?”

“Hmm? Oh. No. Not hungry. Coffee’s enough.” She took a deliberate sip, her eyes never leaving the screen.

A familiar protectiveness stirred in you. It was an old habit, born from years of sharing a home. When Su-A got like this—hyper-focused, dismissive of her own needs—you’d often step in. It was a small thing, a sibling thing. It felt grounding, normal, amidst the surreal new landscape of your relationships.

“You should eat something,” you said, moving into the kitchenette. You opened the sleek stainless-steel refrigerator. The resort had stocked it well: eggs, butter, a packet of bacon, cheese, some vegetables, a loaf of crusty bread. “It’ll help you think.”

Su-A finally looked away from her laptop, raising an eyebrow at you. “Since when did you become my nutritionist?”

“Since forever,” you replied, pulling out the eggs and bacon. “Scrambled? With cheese?”

She watched you for a long moment, the keyboard clicks ceasing. Her gaze was assessing, unreadable. Then, that soft smile returned, more genuine this time. “Fine. Chef away. But make it quick. I have a video call in forty-five minutes.”

You got to work. The rhythmic, mundane actions were a balm—cracking eggs into a bowl, whisking them with a fork, the sizzle of butter hitting the pan. The rich, savory smell of frying bacon soon joined the aroma of coffee, filling the small space with a sense of domesticity. You found a block of cheddar and grated a generous pile into the eggs.

“So,” Su-A said, her voice casual. She’d closed her laptop lid, giving you her full attention. She swiveled the stool to face you, resting her elbows on the breakfast bar. “How are you feeling?”

The question was loaded. You kept your eyes on the pan, scrambling the eggs gently. “Good. Weird. Good-weird.”

“Good-weird is the best kind of weird,” she mused. “No regrets, then?”

You shook your head, a firm, decisive motion. “No. None.” You dared a glance at her. “You?”

She laughed, a light, airy sound. “Me? I got exactly what I wanted. A front-row seat to the culmination of… let’s call it a long-term project.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief, but there was a warmth there too, a satisfaction that went beyond mere voyeurism. “They’re crazy about you, you know. Like, ‘planning-the-wedding-in-their-heads-already’ crazy. It’s adorable.”

Your face grew warm. You focused on plating the food. You spooned the fluffy, cheesy eggs onto a plate, added several strips of crispy bacon, and toasted two slices of the bread quickly in the pan. You slid the plate in front of her, along with a fresh set of cutlery.

“Eat.”

She looked down at the plate, then back up at you. For a split second, her confident mask slipped, revealing something quieter, more touched. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I know,” you said simply, leaning against the opposite counter. “Eat before it gets cold.”

She picked up her fork and took a bite. Her eyes fluttered closed for a second. “Oh, wow. Okay. You’ve been holding out on me. This is fantastic.”

The simple praise made you smile. You busied yourself making another plate for yourself, the comfortable silence stretching between you, filled only with the sounds of eating and the distant cry of seabirds.

The tranquility was shattered by the swoosh of the main bungalow door sliding open.

“I’m telling you, the water is literally turquoise. It’s not a color that should exist in nature!” Ryujin’s raspy, energetic voice preceded her into the room.

“It was very pretty,” came Karina’s softer, agreeable reply.

They walked into the living area, both glowing from their walk. Ryujin was in her element: black bike shorts, a loose, faded band t-shirt, her hair in a messy bun with strands stuck to her damp neck. Karina wore a simple, pale yellow sundress that flowed around her calves, her hair down and slightly windswept. They both stopped short when they saw the two of you in the kitchenette.

Their eyes went to Su-A, then to you, then to the food. The dynamic in the room shifted palpably. Last night’s intimacy hung in the air, a silent, shared secret. Karina’s cheeks immediately dusted pink. Ryujin’s sharp eyes darted from Su-A’s plate to your face, a slow, knowing grin spreading across her features.

“Well, well,” Ryujin drawled, strolling over. “Someone’s being domestic. Smells amazing in here.” She leaned her hip against the breakfast bar, right next to Su-A, and peered at her plate. “You made her breakfast? How come I never got breakfast in bed?”

“You were too busy trying to smother me in my sleep,” you retorted, falling easily into the familiar, teasing rhythm with her. It felt natural, but now it was underscored with a new layer of fondness.

Ryujin barked a laugh. “Fair.”

Karina approached more slowly, her hands clasped in front of her. She gave you a shy, radiant smile that made your stomach flip. “Good morning,” she said, her voice like honey.

“Morning, Karina-noona,” you replied, your own voice softening.

Her smile widened at the honorific, a blush deepening on her cheeks. Her gaze was so openly affectionate it was almost overwhelming.

“We’re starving,” Ryujin announced, breaking the moment. She looked at you with exaggerated puppy-dog eyes. “Any chance the master chef is taking orders? I’d kill for some of those cheesy eggs.”

“Me too,” Karina added softly, her eyes still on you. “Please?”

Su-A, halfway through her meal, waved her fork. “Don’t look at me. I’m just a grateful client. He’s in charge.”

The sense of normalcy was an illusion, but a comforting one. You were just making breakfast for your stepsister and her friends. The fact that two of those friends had, less than twelve hours ago, been wrapped around you in a tangle of limbs and profound declarations, was a truth you quietly held close.

“Coming right up,” you said, turning back to the stove. You pulled out more eggs, more bacon. The kitchenette became a hub of quiet activity. You cooked; Ryujin hopped up to sit on the counter next to the stove, swinging her legs and stealing a strip of bacon straight from the pan with a yelp when it burned her fingers. Karina, ever helpful, found plates and set the breakfast bar with them, pouring glasses of orange juice from the fridge. Su-A finished her food and reopened her laptop, but she wasn’t really working anymore. She was watching the three of you, a contented, almost maternal smile on her face.

It was… nice. Peaceful. The sexual tension of the past days had transmuted into something else—a warm, settled intimacy. There were glances, of course. The way Karina’s hand brushed yours when she took a plate. The way Ryujin’s foot nudged your leg playfully as she sat on the counter. But they were gentle, affirming touches. Connective tissue.

You served them both heaping plates. Ryujin dug in with her characteristic gusto, barely pausing to breathe between bites. “Oh my god,” she moaned around a mouthful. “This is fucking heavenly. I’m keeping you.”

Karina ate more delicately, but her enjoyment was evident in every small, pleased hum. “It’s really delicious,” she said, looking at you. “Thank you.”

“See?” Su-A said, not looking up from her screen. “I told you he was a keeper. Practical skills.”

“You were right, unnie,” Karina said, her voice sincere. “About everything.”

Su-A finally looked up, meeting Karina’s gaze. A silent communication passed between them, full of understanding and something that looked like gratitude. “I usually am,” Su-A said lightly, but the warmth in her eyes was unmistakable.

You made your own plate and joined them, pulling up a stool. For a while, the only sounds were the clink of cutlery and the contented sighs of a good meal. The sun streamed in, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air. The ocean whispered against the bungalow stilts below.

“So,” Ryujin said eventually, pushing her clean plate away with a satisfied sigh. “What’s the agenda for our last day in paradise? We fly out tomorrow afternoon, right?”

Su-A nodded, closing her laptop for good. “Yeah. Check-out is at eleven, flight is at four. So today’s our last full day.”

A pang shot through you. The trip had been a whirlwind, a bubble outside of reality. The thought of it ending, of returning to the mundane world of separate homes and routines, was suddenly depressing.

“We should do something chill,” Karina suggested. “My feet are still a little sore from all the snorkeling yesterday.”

“Aww, poor baby,” Ryujin teased, nudging her shoulder. “How about we just… be? Lounge on the deck. Read. Swim right off the back. No schedule.”

“That sounds perfect,” you agreed. The idea of a lazy, sun-drenched day with the three of them, with no games, no dares, just coexistence, was incredibly appealing.

Su-A checked her watch again. “I’ve got that video call now. I’ll be holed up in my room for an hour or so. You three… ‘be’ without me.” She stood, collecting her laptop and mug. She paused behind your stool, and for a second, her hand came to rest on your shoulder, giving it a firm, brief squeeze. It was a gesture so rare from her it felt monumental. “Good job on the eggs, dongsaeng.”

Then she was gone, slipping into her bedroom and closing the door with a soft click.

The three of you were left in the sunlit quiet. The dynamic shifted again, more subtly this time. It was just you, Ryujin, and Karina. The memory of the night was a living thing in the space between you.

Karina was the first to move. She stood and began quietly clearing the plates. You and Ryujin jumped up to help. The three of you moved around the small kitchenette in a wordless, efficient dance—rinsing, loading the dishwasher, wiping counters. It felt eerily natural, like you’d been doing this for years.

When the kitchen was clean, Ryujin stretched her arms over her head, her t-shirt riding up to expose a strip of her taut, tan stomach. “So. Deck time?”

You all migrated to the massive wooden deck that extended over the lagoon. The sun was high and hot, but a constant, gentle breeze made it bearable. Ryujin immediately claimed one of the wide, padded sun loungers, lying flat on her stomach and pulling out her phone. Karina chose the swinging daybed, curling up on it with a contented sigh and the book she’d brought on the trip. You stood at the railing for a moment, looking out at the impossible gradient of blues.

This was it. The calm after the storm. The comfortable silence of people who have said the big things and now just get to be.

You eventually took the sun lounger next to Ryujin. The heat seeped into your bones, and the exhaustion from the night’s activities and the early wake-up began to pull you toward a doze. The sounds were a lullaby: the lap of water, the distant putter of a boat, the turn of Karina’s book page, the tap of Ryujin’s thumbs on her phone screen.

“Hey,” Ryujin said after a long while, her voice quiet. She wasn’t looking at you; she was still on her phone.

“Hmm?”

“Last night… with the baby and marriage talk.” She paused. “That wasn’t just the heat of the moment for her, you know. Or for me.”

You opened your eyes, turning your head to look at her. Her profile was sharp against the bright sky, her expression uncharacteristically serious.

“I know,” you said, just as quietly.

“It’s a lot to put on you,” she continued, finally setting her phone down on the lounger and rolling onto her side to face you. Her eyes searched yours. “We don’t… we don’t expect you to have all the answers right now. Hell, I don’t have all the answers. This is… new. For all of us.”

From the daybed, Karina’s page-turning had stopped. You knew she was listening.

“It is a lot,” you admitted, your voice low. “But it’s a lot I want. More than I ever let myself dream of wanting.”

Ryujin’s serious expression melted into a soft, relieved smile. It transformed her face, making her look younger, more vulnerable. “Good.” She reached over the gap between the loungers and found your hand, lacing her fingers through yours. Her grip was strong, sure. “Then we’ll figure it out. The three of us. And the four of us, including your nosy-ass stepsister in there.”

You chuckled, squeezing her hand back. “She’s part of the package.”

“Damn right I am,” Su-A’s voice called from the doorway. She stepped out onto the deck, having changed into a simple black tank top and shorts, her video call evidently over. She looked relaxed, the work-stress gone from her posture. She surveyed the scene—you and Ryujin holding hands, Karina watching from the daybed with a soft smile—and her own smile was one of deep contentment. “Don’t think you’re getting rid of me. I’m the architect of this masterpiece. I demand lifetime visitation rights.”

“You’ve got them,” Karina said, her voice firm and happy.

Su-A grabbed a fourth lounger and dragged it over, creating a loose circle. She lay down, putting on a pair of oversized sunglasses. “So,” she said, tilting her face to the sun. “What’s the consensus? Are we officially a weird, modern, polyamorous… thing?”

The question hung in the air. It was the first time anyone had tried to put a label on it.

Ryujin was the one who answered, her raspy voice clear and decisive. “We’re a us. That’s all the label I need.”

“I like that,” Karina murmured.

“Us,” you repeated, testing the word. It felt right. It felt huge. It felt like home.

The afternoon melted away in a haze of sun and quiet conversation. You talked about nothing important—movies you wanted to see, a restaurant Ryujin insisted you all try back in Seoul, Su-A’s annoying client. The heavy conversations of the future were gently set aside, acknowledged but not pressed. There would be time for logistics, for navigating the real world. For now, there was just this: the four of you, a unit, basking in the afterglow of a seismic shift.

As the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in streaks of orange and purple, a resort staff member arrived with a small, wheeled cart. “Complimentary sunset drinks and canapés,” he announced with a smile, setting out a pitcher of something fruity and non-alcoholic, glasses, and several plates of elegant little bites.

It was the perfect cue. You all sat up, gathering around the low table on the deck. You poured drinks. The mood was festive, tinged with the sweet melancholy of a journey ending.

“A toast,” Su-A said, raising her glass. Her sunglasses were off now, and her eyes shone. “To my brilliant, meddlesome plan.”

“To your brilliant, meddlesome plan,” Ryujin echoed, clinking her glass against Su-A’s.

“To this trip,” Karina added, her gaze sweeping over all of you.

You raised your glass. Words failed you for a moment. So much had happened. “To… new beginnings,” you finally said. “And to ‘us’.”

“To us,” they all chorused, and the clink of glasses was a bright, cheerful sound against the backdrop of the darkening sea.

You drank. The beverage was cool and sweet. You ate the delicate food, the flavors bursting on your tongue. The conversation flowed easily, laughter coming more frequently now. The anxiety about the return trip faded, replaced by a steady, thrilling certainty. Whatever came next, you wouldn’t be facing it alone.

Ryujin told a story about a childhood mishap involving a bicycle and a fish market, her animated gestures making Karina laugh so hard she snorted, which made everyone else laugh even harder. Su-A shared a surprisingly funny anecdote about her corporate job. You listened, your heart feeling impossibly full.

This, you realized, was the true destination of the trip. Not just the physical intimacy, but this: the easy camaraderie, the shared silence, the collective laughter. The foundation of something real.

The sky deepened to a velvet blue, the first stars pricking through. The resort lights twinkled on across the water. Your last night in the Maldives was here.

Su-A stretched, a contented groan leaving her lips. “I’m going to go pack,” she said. “Get a head start on the misery.”

“I should, too,” Karina said, though she made no move to get up from the daybed, where she was now leaning against your side, your arm around her shoulders.

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” Ryujin grumbled, finishing the last of the juice in the pitcher. She stood up, though, and started collecting the empty plates and glasses onto the cart. “Come on, lazybones. Let’s at least get the room in some kind of order. I don’t want to be scrambling tomorrow.”

Karina sighed but acquiesced, untangling herself from you with obvious reluctance. “Okay.”

You all moved back inside, turning on the soft interior lights. The bungalow, which had felt like a secret, passionate playground, now just felt like a very nice hotel room that needed to be vacated. Su-A disappeared into her room. Ryujin and Karina headed toward yours.

You stood in the living area for a moment, watching them go. Karina glanced back over her shoulder, giving you that shy, heart-stopping smile once more before disappearing into the bedroom.

Ryujin, however, stopped in the doorway. She turned, her expression thoughtful in the low light. “Hey,” she said. “Before we get bogged down in packing… there’s one last thing I want to do here. One last memory to make.”

Ryujin’s words hung in the doorway, charged with a quiet intensity that cut through the mundane task of packing. Her eyes, usually so sharp and playful, held a softer, more desperate edge. The mention of a “last memory” wasn’t a suggestion for another game. It was a need.

“What did you have in mind?” you asked, your voice lower than you intended.

She didn’t answer with words. She simply stepped back into the living area, letting the bedroom door swing shut behind her. The soft light from the table lamp painted her face in warm gold and deep shadow. She walked toward you, each step slow and deliberate on the polished wooden floor. When she was close enough that you could smell the salt and sunscreen still on her skin, she stopped.

“Last night was… everything,” she began, her raspy voice barely above a whisper. “But it was also frantic. Hungry. It was about catching up for lost time.” She reached out, her fingers tracing the line of your jaw, a touch so tender it made your breath stutter. “I haven’t had nearly enough of just… this. Of taking my time with you.”

From the bedroom, you heard the soft shuffle of feet. Karina appeared in the doorway, having changed into a simple, thin cotton sleep shirt that fell to her mid-thigh. She leaned against the frame, watching, her expression one of gentle understanding.

“I can’t sleep,” Ryujin continued, her thumb brushing your lower lip. “My mind won’t shut off. All I can think about is your mouth. The way you taste. The sounds you make. The weight of you on top of me, inside me.” Her confession was blunt, stripped of her usual teasing armor. It was raw. “I’ve been thinking about fucking you since I was dumb enough to think you were just Su-A’s cute little brother. And now that I’ve had you, the thought of leaving this place without… without savoring you… it feels wrong.”

Your heart was a pounding drum in your chest. “Ryujin-noona…”

“Shh,” she murmured, shifting her hand to cradle the back of your neck. “Just let me have this. Let us have this.”

She closed the final distance, her lips meeting yours. It wasn’t the aggressive, claiming kiss from the night before. This was slow. Painfully slow. A soft press, a retreat, another press that lingered, her mouth moving against yours with a sensual patience that melted your bones. Her tongue traced the seam of your lips, asking, not demanding. You opened for her, and the kiss deepened into something lush and explorative. You could taste the fading sweetness of the sunset drink on her tongue, the unique, warm flavor that was just her.

Her hands slid down your back, pulling your body flush against hers. Through your thin t-shirt and her band tee, you could feel the firm planes of her stomach, the rapid beat of her heart. One of her hands slipped under the hem of your shirt, her palm scorching against the skin of your lower back. The touch drew a low groan from you, swallowed by her mouth.

A soft clearing of a throat made you both break the kiss, but only just. Your foreheads rested together as you turned your heads.

Su-A stood at the entrance to her room, having changed into a silky, emerald green camisole and shorts set. She wasn’t smiling her usual catlike grin. Her expression was one of deep, rapt attention. “Don’t stop on my account,” she said, her voice a husky murmur. She leaned against her doorframe, mirroring Karina’s pose across the room. “This is the memory she’s talking about. I want in.”

Karina, emboldened by Su-A’s presence, pushed off from her doorway and walked toward you. She came to stand beside Ryujin, her gaze soft and full of wanting. “Me too,” she said simply.

Ryujin pulled back just enough to look at Karina, then at Su-A. A slow, genuine smile spread across her kiss-swollen lips. “Good.” She looked back at you, her eyes dancing. “Then let’s do this properly. No dares. No games. Just us. And I want to take my fucking time.”

She took a half-step back, her hands moving to the hem of her loose band t-shirt. Her eyes locked on yours as she began to pull it up, revealing the taut, tan skin of her stomach inch by inch. The muscles in her abdomen flexed subtly. The lamp light caught the smooth curve of her waist, the defined lines leading down to the waistband of her bike shorts. She pulled the shirt over her head and let it drop to the floor with a whisper of fabric.

She stood before you in just her black sports bra and the tight bike shorts. Her arms, lean and defined, were on full display. The sports bra hugged her small, pert breasts, the cut highlighting the elegant line of her collarbones. She was all compact strength and graceful lines, a tomboyish elegance that was utterly captivating.

“Your turn,” she said, her gaze dipping to your t-shirt.

Your fingers felt clumsy, but you grasped the hem of your shirt and pulled it off, tossing it aside. The cooler air of the bungalow kissed your skin, raising goosebumps.

Ryujin’s eyes darkened as she looked at you. “So good,” she breathed. She stepped close again, but this time her hands went to your shoulders, then slid down your arms, feeling the muscle there. Her touch was worshipful, mapping you. “I’ve wanted to look my fill for so long.”

As her hands explored your chest and stomach, Karina moved. She came up behind you, her body pressing against your back. You felt the soft, heavy weight of her breasts against your shoulder blades, the whisper of her cotton sleep shirt. Her arms slid around your waist, her hands splaying over your abdomen, her chin resting on your shoulder. Her breath was warm against your neck.

“You’re so warm,” she murmured, nuzzling into the space between your neck and shoulder. Her lips brushed your skin, a ghost of a kiss.

Su-A watched for another moment, then pushed off the doorframe. She didn’t speak as she approached, her movements fluid and confident. She stopped in front of you, her eyes studying the tableau—Ryujin before you, Karina behind you. A faint, approving smile touched her lips. Then her hands came up to the thin straps of her camisole. She pushed them off her shoulders, letting the silky green fabric slither down her body to pool at her feet. She stood in just a matching set of emerald green lace panties, her figure toned and graceful in the soft light.

“If we’re savoring,” Su-A said, her voice a low purr, “then we’re all in.”

The sight of the three of them, in various states of undress, focused entirely on you, was almost too much to process. It was a dizzying, breathtaking form of worship.

Ryujin’s attention was pulled to Su-A for a second, a smirk playing on her lips. “Always have to make an entrance, unnie.”

“Always,” Su-A agreed, her eyes gleaming.

Ryujin’s focus returned to you. Her fingers found the button of your shorts, popping it open with a deft flick. The zipper rasped down. “These are in the way,” she said, her voice thick.

Karina’s hands at your waist helped, pushing the fabric over your hips. Together, they eased your shorts and boxers down your legs until you could step out of them. You were naked now, exposed to their combined gaze. The air felt electric on your skin.

Ryujin didn’t immediately touch you again. She just looked, her eyes traveling down your body with a heated appreciation that made your skin flush. “Perfect,” she whispered.

Then she sank to her knees.

The world narrowed to the sight of Ryujin on her knees before you, her head level with your hips. Her hands settled on your thighs, her thumbs rubbing slow circles on the sensitive inner skin. She looked up at you, her eyes huge and dark. “I’ve dreamed about this view,” she admitted, her voice rough.

Karina, still holding you from behind, tightened her arms around you. One of her hands drifted lower, her fingers trailing through the hair at the base of your stomach, but going no further. She was content to hold, to be connected, while Ryujin took the lead.

Su-A came to stand beside Ryujin, looking down at her friend with a mix of affection and arousal. She reached out and ran her fingers through Ryujin’s dark hair, pushing it back from her forehead. “Show him how much you missed him,” Su-A murmured, her words a clear encouragement.

Ryujin didn’t need more invitation. She leaned forward, but instead of taking you in her mouth, she pressed her face against your stomach, kissing the skin just above your navel. Her lips were soft, warm. She trailed kisses lower, along the line of hair, her breath fanning over you. Her hands slid to your ass, gripping firmly, pulling you just a fraction closer.

“You have no idea,” she whispered against your skin, her words a hot vibration. “The nights I lay awake, imagining your cock in my mouth. Wondering how you’d taste. How you’d feel on my tongue.” She kissed the base of your shaft, a slow, open-mouthed press that made your legs tremble. “The reality is so much fucking better.”

Finally, her tongue swept out, a broad, wet stroke from root to tip. A ragged groan tore from your throat. Karina’s arms squeezed you in response, her own breathing growing uneven against your back.

Ryujin took her time, her tongue painting slow, maddening circles around the head, licking away the bead of moisture that had gathered there. She savored it, humming softly. “So good,” she mumbled, her lips brushing against you as she spoke. “All for me. For us.”

She opened her mouth and took you in, not with a sudden plunge, but with an excruciatingly slow descent. You watched, mesmerized, as your length disappeared between her lips, her cheeks hollowing slightly. She reached about halfway, her tongue working along the underside, before pulling back with a soft, wet pop.

“Fuck, Ryujin…” you gasped.

She grinned up at you, a wicked, beautiful sight. “I plan to,” she said, before diving back in. This time she took more, her head beginning to bob in a slow, sensual rhythm. Her hands kneaded your ass, guiding your gentle movements. Every pull of her mouth, every flick of her tongue was a masterpiece of controlled pleasure. She was savoring you, just as she promised.

The dual sensations were overwhelming—the hot, wet suction of Ryujin’s mouth, and the soft, full press of Karina’s body against your back, her occasional kisses on your shoulder blade, her hands stroking your stomach.

Then Su-A moved. She knelt beside Ryujin, her face close to her friend’s working mouth. She watched, her own lips slightly parted. After a moment, she turned her head and captured Ryujin’s lips in a deep, messy kiss. You could see their tongues slide together, taste mingling. It was intensely erotic, a shared intimacy that included you completely.

Su-A broke the kiss, her eyes finding yours. “She’s good, isn’t she?” she said, her voice breathless. “But she shouldn’t have all the fun.”

Su-A’s hands joined Ryujin’s on your thighs, her touch slightly cooler. She leaned in and began to kiss and lick the skin of your hip, her mouth working in tandem with Ryujin’s. When Ryujin pulled back to breathe, her lips slick and swollen, Su-A took her place, taking you into her own mouth without hesitation.

The difference was striking. Where Ryujin’s technique was all playful, passionate control, Su-A’s was confident and deep. She took you to the back of her throat almost immediately, a low hum of pleasure vibrating through you. Her hands slid up to your stomach, her nails scratching lightly through the hair there.

Ryujin watched for a moment, panting, a look of pure lust on her face. Then she turned her attention to your balls, cupping them gently in one hand while her mouth and tongue lavished attention on the sensitive skin beneath.

You were lost in a vortex of sensation. Karina’s whispers of encouragement in your ear. The wet, hot heat of Su-A’s mouth. The clever, teasing flicks of Ryujin’s tongue. Your fingers tangled in Su-A’s hair, then in Ryujin’s, not guiding, just needing to hold on.

“That’s it,” Karina whispered, her voice trembling with her own arousal. “They love you so much. We all do.”

Su-A pulled off with a gasp, a string of saliva connecting her lips to you. “Okay,” she panted, her eyes glazed. “My turn for that view.” She shifted, moving to sit on the floor beside you, leaning her head against Karina’s leg, looking up the line of your body.

Ryujin reclaimed her position, her mouth enveloping you once more, her rhythm growing a fraction more urgent, a fraction more desperate. The buildup was exquisite, a slow coil of tension in your gut.

But you didn’t want to finish like this. Not yet. Not when the promise of more hung in the air.

With a force of will that felt superhuman, you gently pulled Ryujin’s head back by her hair. She released you with a surprised, wet sound, looking up at you with questioning, lust-drowned eyes.

“My turn,” you breathed, your voice barely recognizable.

You turned in Karina’s arms, facing her. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted. You cupped her face and kissed her, pouring all the building intensity into it. She melted against you, her hands coming up to clutch at your shoulders. You walked her backward slowly until her legs hit the edge of the large, low sofa in the middle of the room.

“Lie down,” you murmured against her mouth.

She did, sinking into the soft cushions, her cotton sleep shirt riding up to the tops of her thighs. You followed her down, settling between her legs, bracing yourself over her. You kissed her again, deeply, while your hand slid up her thigh, under the hem of her shirt. You found the damp heat of her panties, and a shuddering moan broke from her lips into your mouth.

From the floor, Ryujin and Su-A watched. Ryujin crawled closer, coming to kneel beside the sofa at Karina’s head. She leaned down and kissed Karina’s temple, then her cheek, then captured her lips in a searing kiss of her own, her hand coming to rest on Karina’s stomach, under her shirt.

Su-A stood and walked to the other side of the sofa. She looked down at the three of you, her gaze hungry. Slowly, she hooked her thumbs into the sides of her lace panties and pushed them down her legs, kicking them aside. She was now fully naked, her body a stunning silhouette against the room’s light. She climbed onto the sofa, kneeling near Karina’s hips.

You broke your kiss with Karina, both of you breathless. You looked at Su-A, then at Ryujin. “All of you,” you said, the command soft but undeniable. “I want to see all of you.”

Understanding flashed in their eyes. Ryujin sat back on her heels and pulled her sports bra over her head in one swift motion. Her breasts were small, high, and perfectly shaped, with dusky pink nipples that were already peaked tight. She didn’t shy away; she arched her back slightly, offering herself to your gaze.

Su-A, already bare, simply smiled and ran her hands over her own curves, from her breasts down to her hips, a slow, proud caress.

Karina, beneath you, bit her lip. With a shy glance, she gripped the hem of her sleep shirt and pulled it up, over her head, letting it fall to the floor. She was left in only a pair of simple, pale blue cotton panties. Her breasts spilled free, full and heavy, their weight shifting as she breathed. Her nipples were a deeper pink, large and beautifully erect.

The sight stole the air from your lungs. Three stunning women, all bare, all focused on you and each other. Ryujin’s athletic leanness. Karina’s lush, generous curves. Su-A’s toned, confident elegance. It was a mosaic of desire, and you were at the center.

You lowered your head to Karina’s breast, taking one taut nipple into your mouth. She cried out, her back arching off the cushions. You sucked gently, then with more pressure, your tongue circling the peak. Your hand found her other breast, kneading the soft, heavy flesh, thumb brushing over the nipple.

Ryujin’s hand joined yours, her fingers tracing the curves of Karina’s breast you weren’t touching. “So beautiful, Kka,” Ryujin murmured, before leaning down to kiss Karina’s stomach.

Su-A watched for a moment, her hand drifting between her own legs. She touched herself, her fingers sliding through her folds, a soft sigh escaping her. She wasn’t just an observer; she was a participant, getting off on the sight and the energy in the room.

You moved your mouth lower, trailing kisses down Karina’s quivering stomach. You hooked your fingers into the waistband of her panties. She lifted her hips, a silent plea, and you pulled them down and off her legs. She was completely exposed now, her thighs falling open slightly.

Her pussy was beautiful. Neatly trimmed, her lips full and already glistening with her arousal. The scent of her, musky and sweet, filled the air around you. You knelt between her legs, your hands spreading her thighs wider.

“Please,” she whimpered, her hands fisting in the sofa cushions.

You didn’t make her wait. You lowered your head and pressed an open-mouthed kiss right to her center. Her whole body jerked. Her taste exploded on your tongue—salty, earthy, uniquely Karina. You groaned against her, the sound vibrating through her sensitive flesh.

You began to eat her pussy with a focused hunger, but with the same slow, savoring pace Ryujin had set. Your tongue traced long, slow strokes from her entrance up to her clit, which was already swollen and peeking from its hood. You circled it, lightly at first, then with more firm pressure.

Karina’s moans were high and breathy, music to your ears. Her hands flew to your hair, not pushing, just holding on. “Oh, god… right there… yes…”

Ryujin moved. She stretched out beside Karina’s head, facing her. She kissed Karina deeply, swallowing her moans. One of Ryujin’s hands slid down to cup Karina’s breast, pinching and rolling her nipple.

Su-A crawled closer. She positioned herself near your hip, her eyes on your face as you worshipped Karina’s cunt. Her own fingers were busy between her legs, moving in quick, slick circles. “Look at you,” Su-A breathed, her voice thick with lust. “You’re a natural. Making her feel so good.”

You doubled your efforts, your tongue spearing into Karina’s entrance before flattening against her clit. You sucked the sensitive nub into your mouth, and Karina shattered. Her orgasm hit her suddenly, her body bowing off the sofa. A sharp cry was torn from her throat, muffled by Ryujin’s kiss. Her thighs clamped around your head, her hips bucking against your mouth as wave after wave of pleasure rolled through her. You felt her cunt clench rhythmically around nothing, her juices flowing freely over your chin.

You gentled your tongue, licking her through the aftershocks until her grip on your hair loosened and her body went boneless against the cushions, her chest heaving.

You lifted your head, your lips and chin slick. Ryujin broke the kiss with Karina to look at you, her eyes blazing. Without a word, she grabbed your face and pulled you into a fierce, deep kiss. You could taste Karina on your lips, and Ryujin groaned into your mouth, her tongue licking the flavor from yours.

“My turn,” Ryujin growled when she released you. She pushed you onto your back on the sofa, right next to the spent and trembling Karina. Ryujin swung her leg over your hips, straddling you. Her wet, bare cunt pressed against your hard stomach. She leaned down, bracing her hands on either side of your head, her small breasts dangling above your face.

“You made her come so pretty,” Ryujin whispered, her hips grinding slowly against you, smearing her own arousal on your skin. “Now I want you to make me scream.”

She lowered her mouth to yours in a devouring kiss. As she kissed you, her hand snaked between your bodies, her fingers wrapping around your shaft. She guided you to her entrance, the head of your cock nudging against her soaked, hot folds.

She paused, hovering there, letting you feel the incredible heat of her, the way her body welcomed you without even taking you in. She was dripping, her wetness coating you.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” she confessed against your lips, her voice breaking with emotion. “Not just the fucking. You. I want you. All of you.” She looked over at Karina, who was watching with hazy, loving eyes, and then at Su-A, who had stopped touching herself to watch this moment with rapt attention. “And I want them to have you, too. We’re sharing you. We’re keeping you.”

With that, she sank down, taking you inside her in one slow, breathtaking inch.

The sensation was blinding. Her tight, silken heat enveloped you, a perfect, glove-like fit. She was so tight you saw stars, her inner muscles fluttering around the intrusion. She took you another inch, a low, guttural moan spilling from her lips. Her forehead dropped to yours, her eyes squeezed shut.

“Fuck… you’re so big,” she gasped. “So deep.”

She began to move, lifting her hips and sinking back down, setting a slow, grinding rhythm that had you seeing stars. Each descent was a deliberate, full-bodied surrender. You could feel every inch of her inner walls gripping you, massaging you. Her breasts brushed against your chest with every movement.

You gripped her hips, helping her set the pace. Your mouth found her neck, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin there. She cried out, her pace faltering for a second before becoming more urgent.

Karina recovered enough to prop herself up on an elbow. She leaned over and captured one of Ryujin’s bouncing breasts in her mouth, sucking the nipple deeply. Ryujin’s moan turned into a ragged sob of pleasure.

Su-A moved then. She came around the sofa and knelt on the floor near your head. She bent down and kissed you, her tongue plunging into your mouth as you fucked her best friend. The multitasking of sensations—Ryujin’s tight cunt milking your cock, Su-A’s hungry kiss, Karina’s mouth on Ryujin’s breast—drove you to the edge of madness.

“That’s it, baby,” Su-A whispered against your lips when she broke the kiss. “Fuck her just like that. She’s wanted it for years. Give her everything.”

Ryujin’s movements became more erratic, her breathing sharp pants against your ear. “I’m close… so close… don’t stop…”

You drove up into her, meeting her downward thrusts. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, a lewd, rhythmic music. Karina’s hand slipped between your bodies, her fingers finding Ryujin’s clit and rubbing tight, fast circles.

That was all it took.

Ryujin’s body seized. A raw, shattered scream tore from her throat as her orgasm ripped through her. Her cunt clamped down on you in a series of violent, fluttering spasms, so intense it was almost painful. She collapsed forward onto your chest, her body convulsing, her internal muscles pulling and squeezing every last drop of sensation from you.

The feeling of her coming apart on top of you, her hot release flooding around your cock, pushed you over the edge. With a shout of her name, you erupted inside her. Your hips pistoned up, burying yourself to the hilt as your own release surged through you in thick, pulsing waves. The pleasure was catastrophic, wiping out every thought, leaving only the feel of her, the scent of her sweat and sex, and the sound of her weeping with release against your shoulder.

For long moments, the only sounds were ragged breathing and the faint hum of the air conditioner. Ryujin lay boneless atop you, her heart hammering against yours. You were still buried inside her, both of you pulsing with the aftershocks.

Slowly, gently, Karina and Su-A’s hands were on you both, stroking Ryujin’s back, your arms. Tender, grounding touches.

Ryujin finally stirred, lifting her head. Her eyes were glassy, her makeup smudged, her lips swollen. She looked utterly wrecked and more beautiful than you’d ever seen her. She leaned down and kissed you, a soft, trembling kiss full of unspoken emotion.

“I love you,” she whispered, the words a secret just for you in the aftermath. “I’ve loved you for so long.”

Before you could even process that, the world shifted again. Su-A’s hands were on Ryujin’s shoulders, gently easing her off you. Ryujin slid off to the side with a soft, sated sigh, curling into Karina’s waiting arms on the sofa.

You were exposed again, lying on your back, spent but still throbbing. Su-A looked down at you, her eyes dark with intent. She wasn’t finished. None of them were.

“My turn,” Su-A said, her voice a velvet promise as she swung her leg over your hips, her own wetness now

Ryujin’s spent body curled into Karina’s embrace, their shared warmth a soft island on the vast sofa. You lay beneath Su-A, her weight not yet fully settled, her thighs straddling your hips, her gaze a storm of intent. The air was thick with the scent of sex—musky, salty, sweet—and the low hum of satisfaction.

Su-A didn’t speak. She just looked at you, her eyes tracing the lines of your face, your chest still damp from Ryujin’s sweat and her own release. Her fingers, cool and deliberate, brushed over your stomach, tracing the path of a drop of sweat. Then her hand moved lower, her palm cupping your cock, which was still semi-hard, slick with Ryujin’s juices and your own.

“You’re still so ready,” she observed, her voice a low, velvet murmur. She squeezed gently, her thumb brushing over the sensitive head. A fresh jolt of arousal sparked through your fatigue. “Even after fucking Ryujin’s brains out. You’re a greedy boy.”

From the side, Ryujin chuckled, a tired, happy sound. “He’s ours, unnie. We can be greedy too.”

Karina shifted, her hand stroking Ryujin’s hair. “Should we… help?” she asked, her shyness returning but tempered with a new confidence.

Su-A’s smile was predatory. “Yes. But not like before. I have a different fantasy.” Her eyes locked on yours. “I’ve watched you with them. I’ve watched you take them, make them come. It’s fucking hot. But I’ve also watched them worship you. Ryujin’s mouth on you… Karina’s hands on you… I want that. I want to watch them do it again, but this time, I want to be in the middle of it. I want to feel it.”

You understood. “What do you want?”

She leaned down, her lips brushing yours, a ghost of a kiss. “I want you to lie back. And I want Ryujin and Karina to give you a double blowjob. While I watch. While I touch myself. While I get so fucking wet just looking at my friends choking on your cock.” Her breath was hot against your ear. “And then… I want you to drag me into it. I want a triple. I want all three of our mouths on you, licking, sucking, sharing you. I want to see you slap their asses while they gag on you. I want to see you own them. The thought of it… it makes my cunt ache.”

Her confession was pure, unfiltered lust. It mirrored your own deepest desires, the ones you hadn’t even fully articulated.

Ryujin was already moving. She disentangled herself from Karina, a new energy in her tired limbs. “Fuck yes,” she rasped, crawling off the sofa. She stood, her naked body gleaming in the lamplight, and walked to the other side of you. “I’m not done tasting him. I want to taste him with you, Karina.”

Karina, with a shy but determined nod, also rose. She moved to join Ryujin, both of them now kneeling on the floor beside the sofa, facing you. Their faces were level with your hips. Ryujin’s expression was eager, hungry. Karina’s was soft, but her eyes held a dark, wanting fire.

Su-A shifted, swinging her leg off you and sitting back on the sofa cushions beside your hip. She gave you space, but her presence was a palpable force. “Go on,” she purred. “Show me.”

Ryujin didn’t hesitate. Her hand wrapped around your shaft, her grip firm. She leaned in and her tongue darted out, licking a long stripe from the base to the tip, cleaning away the mixed fluids. “Still so perfect,” she mumbled, before opening her mouth and taking the head inside.

Karina watched for a second, then mirrored her. She didn’t take you in her mouth yet. Instead, she kissed the side of your shaft, her lips soft and warm. Then she nuzzled the skin just below, her cheek rubbing against you. It was tender, almost affectionate, before her mouth joined Ryujin’s.

They didn’t coordinate with words. It was an instinctual teamwork. Ryujin took the upper half, her mouth sinking down until her lips met her hand. Karina focused on the lower half and your balls. Her tongue swirled around the base, then licked over your sensitive sac, her mouth gentle but insistent.

The dual sensation was incredible. Ryujin’s suction was strong, rhythmic, her head bobbing with a practiced ease. Karina’s mouth was softer, wetter, her tongue exploring every inch she could reach. Their heads bumped occasionally, a soft collision that only seemed to spur them on.

Su-A watched, her breathing becoming audible. She spread her legs wider, one hand coming up to cup her own breast, pinching her nipple. The other hand slid between her thighs. You could hear the wet sound of her fingers moving through her folds. “Look at them,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “They’re so fucking good at this. They love your cock so much.”

Ryujin pulled back, her lips releasing you with a wet pop. She looked at Karina. “Switch,” she said, her voice thick.

Karina understood. She moved up, taking the head into her mouth as Ryujin shifted down, her mouth now lavishing attention on your balls. Karina’s technique was different—less aggressive, more exploratory. She sucked gently, her tongue fluttering against the underside of the head. Her full lips enveloped you beautifully, and the sight of her, usually so shy, being so brazen, sent a surge of heat through your gut.

“God, Karina,” you groaned, your hand reaching out to stroke her hair.

She moaned around you, the vibration traveling straight down your spine.

Ryujin wasn’t content with just your balls. Her hand joined her mouth, her fingers stroking the length Karina wasn’t sucking, her thumb rubbing the frenulum. Then she moved her mouth higher, kissing and licking the shaft alongside Karina’s working lips. They were sharing the space, their mouths sometimes meeting, tongues tangling around your flesh.

Su-A’s moan cut through the room. “I can’t… just watch…” Her fingers were working faster now, her hips rocking slightly. “I need to be in it.”

You reached out, your hand not gentle, grabbing a fistful of Su-A’s silky hair. “Then get in it,” you growled, the possessiveness in your voice surprising even you.

She didn’t resist. She leaned forward, crawling off the sofa to kneel on the floor in front of you, between Ryujin and Karina. The three of them now formed a triangle around your cock, their faces all within inches of each other.

“All of you,” you commanded. “Now.”

Ryujin grinned, a wild, excited look. She took the initiative, leaning in and taking about half of your length into her mouth again. Karina, seeing Ryujin’s position, focused on the remaining half, her mouth meeting Ryujin’s, their lips touching around your shaft. It was a double blowjob, but with their mouths overlapping, a messy, wet, shared effort.

Su-A didn’t take you in her mouth immediately. She lowered her head and began to lick and kiss wherever she could find space—the base, the skin above your balls, the side of your shaft pressed against Ryujin’s cheek. Her tongue was hot, her kisses desperate. Then she found a spot. She pressed her open mouth against the side of your cock where Karina’s lips were, sucking the skin there, her tongue dancing alongside Karina’s.

The view was hot as fuck. Three beautiful, naked women, their hair falling around their faces, their lips swollen and slick, all focused on one goal: worshipping your cock. Their cheeks hollowed as they sucked. Their tongues flicked and swirled. Saliva dripped, mixing with pre-cum and their own arousal. The sounds were obscene—wet slurps, soft gagging noises, low hums of pleasure.

You let your hands roam. You reached out and grabbed Ryujin’s ass, her toned, firm cheek fitting perfectly in your palm. You squeezed, then slapped it—not hard, but with a sharp, crisp sound that echoed in the room.

Ryujin gasped around your cock, her body jerking, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she sucked harder, a challenge.

You turned your attention to Karina. Her ass was fuller, softer. Your hand smacked her cheek, the flesh jiggling beautifully under the impact. She whimpered, a sound of pure submission, and deep-throat you further, taking more of your length than she had before.

Su-A, still licking, looked up at you, her eyes begging. You didn’t slap her ass. You grabbed her hair again, pulling her head forward. “Suck,” you ordered. “Take it.”

She obeyed. She opened her mouth and took the head of your cock into her mouth, her lips sealing around it just below where Ryujin and Karina were working. Now you had three mouths on you at once. Ryujin on the upper half, Karina on the middle, Su-A on the head and the underside. The pressure, the heat, the wetness was overwhelming. Their tongues collided, their lips slid against each other, a symphony of shared pleasure.

They were yours. The thought of it, the visual proof of it, made your cock swell harder, thicker, pushing against the confines of their mouths. You could feel the veins on your shaft throbbing, the head swelling almost painfully.

“You’re choking them,” you muttered, more to yourself than to them. And they were. Ryujin’s eyes were watering as she took you deeper. Karina’s breath was coming in ragged gasps between sucks. Su-A was gagging slightly, but she didn’t pull back; she pushed forward, taking more.

You slapped Ryujin’s ass again, harder this time. A red mark bloomed on her pale skin. She moaned, a guttural, desperate sound, and her cunt, visible from your angle, clenched visibly, dripping fresh arousal onto the floor.

You slapped Karina’s ass, the sound a satisfying thud. Her whole body shuddered, and she released you for a second, coughing, before diving back in with renewed fervor.

Su-A’s hand was still between her own legs, frantically rubbing her clit. “Fuck, fuck, I’m so close…” she panted, her words garbled around your cock.

You wanted to see her come. “Keep going,” you urged, your voice rough. “Make her come while she sucks me.”

Ryujin and Karina understood. They increased their pace, their bobbing heads becoming a synchronized, frantic rhythm. Su-A’s moans grew louder, higher. Her body began to tremble. Her fingers moved wildly, and then her hips bucked. A sharp, broken cry escaped her as her orgasm hit. You felt it through her body, the tension snapping, her mouth going slack around you for a moment as she was lost in the peak.

But she recovered quickly, her mouth resuming its work, sucking with a desperate, post-orgasm hunger.

The combined assault was too much. The coil in your gut tightened to a breaking point. Your balls drew up, a familiar, urgent pressure building.

“I’m gonna come,” you warned, your fingers tightening in their hair.

They didn’t pull away. They pushed in. Ryujin took you as deep as she could, her throat opening around you. Karina swallowed half your length, her nose buried in your stomach. Su-A sucked the head fiercely, her tongue massaging the tip.

The release was volcanic. Your hips bucked off the sofa cushions, thrusting into their collective mouths. The first blast shot directly into Ryujin’s throat. She gulped, swallowing convulsively. The second pulse flooded Karina’s mouth, and she drank it down, her eyes closed in ecstasy. The third, and fourth, and fifth surges filled Su-A’s mouth, spilling over her lips, dripping down her chin.

You came for a long time, a seemingly endless eruption of pent-up need and ownership. They took it all, sucking, swallowing, licking clean every drop that escaped. Their faces were slick with your cum and their saliva, a messy, beautiful painting of submission.

When the last tremor passed, you collapsed back onto the sofa, your body drained, your mind blank. They slowly released you, pulling back with soft, wet sounds.

Ryujin was the first to speak, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, a proud smile on her face. “Fuck, that was intense.”

Karina nodded, her cheeks flushed crimson. She leaned forward and kissed your stomach, a tender, post-service gesture. “You taste so good,” she murmured.

Su-A sat back on her heels, looking dazed and satisfied. She ran her fingers through the cum on her chin, then licked them clean. “I’ve never… done that before. A triple. It’s fucking incredible.” She looked at Ryujin and Karina. “You two are amazing.”

Ryujin crawled forward, not to you, but to Su-A. She kissed Su-A deeply, their tongues sliding together, sharing the taste of you. “We’re a good team,” Ryujin said when they broke apart.

Karina joined them, kissing Su-A’s cheek, then Ryujin’s. The three of them, naked, covered in the evidence of your shared act, formed a small circle of intimacy on the floor. They weren’t jealous. They were happy. Harem-sisters, pleased with their work, pleased with each other.

You watched them, your heart swelling with an emotion beyond lust. It was a deep, warm possessiveness, yes, but also a profound gratitude. They had given you everything, and they had done it together.

After a moment of soft murmurs and touches, Ryujin turned her gaze back to you. “You’re spent,” she observed, her raspy voice gentle. “But we’re not done with our last day.” She glanced out the window, where the first hints of dawn were painting the sky a pale grey. “We have a few hours before we need to pack and leave.”

Su-A stood up, her body elegant even in its fatigue. “A shower,” she declared. “A shared one. To clean up. And then… maybe we can take this energy somewhere else. The private deck. The sunrise.”

Karina’s eyes lit up. “Outside?”

The idea was enticing. The memory of the previous night’s intimacy under the moon, now followed by a sunrise with all three of them…

The shower was a wide, open space, tiled in cool grey stone, with a rainfall showerhead the size of a dinner plate centered in the ceiling. It was built for luxury, for relaxation, not for the kind of frantic, multi-bodied intimacy that was now unfolding within it. But that’s exactly what it became.

Su-A led the way, her posture still regal even as she stepped onto the slick tiles. Ryujin followed, her hand reaching back to pull Karina along. You were the last to enter, the glass door sliding shut behind you with a soft click, sealing you all in a world of warm steam and shared vulnerability.

The water wasn’t on yet. For a moment, you just stood there, the four of you naked in the pale morning light filtering through a high window. The air was cool on your skin, a contrast to the heat still lingering in your blood. You looked at them, and they looked at you. Ryujin’s sharp, athletic frame, marked by the faint red blotch from your slap on her ass. Karina’s softer, curvier silhouette, her breasts heavy and full, her cheeks flushed. Su-A’s toned, confident body, a canvas of controlled power and recent release. And you, standing amidst them, feeling both exposed and utterly accepted.

Su-A reached for the control panel. A dial turned, and a moment later, a cascade of warm water fell from above, drenching you all in a sudden, unifying downpour. It was hot, almost scalding at first, then adjusted to a perfect, enveloping warmth.

“Okay,” Su-A said, her voice clear under the water’s patter. “No more fucking for now. Just… cleaning up. Talking. Being together.”

It was a directive, but it felt like a permission. A space to breathe.

Ryujin stepped under the central stream, letting the water run over her face, her short hair plastering to her scalp. She sighed, a sound of pure contentment. “God, that feels good. My mouth feels… used.”

Karina giggled, a soft, shy sound. She moved closer to Ryujin, letting the water hit her back. “My throat feels the same. But… good. Used in a good way.”

You moved to stand beside Su-A, who was already soaping up her hands with a bottle of expensive-looking body wash from a shelf. The scent was clean, herbal, with a hint of citrus. She began to wash her arms, her movements methodical.

“So,” she said, not looking at you directly. “How are you feeling? In your head. Not just your body.”

The question was unexpected. It cut through the physical afterglow, probing the emotional landscape. You took a moment, letting the water run over your shoulders.

“I’m… overwhelmed,” you admitted. “In a good way. It’s like… everything I ever fantasized about, but it’s real. And it’s with you. All of you.” You glanced at Ryujin and Karina, who were now listening, their expressions open. “I’ve had a crush on both of you for years. Since you first started coming over to our house. Ryujin’s confidence… Karina’s smile… I used to think about it when I was alone. But I never thought…”

“You never thought we’d be on a trip together, sucking your cock in a triple blowjob?” Ryujin interjected, her raspy voice laced with amusement.

“Yeah,” you said, a laugh bubbling up. “That’s exactly what I never thought.”

Karina’s smile was tender. She stepped closer, the water making her skin glisten. “I thought about you too,” she confessed, her voice barely audible over the shower. “When I saw you studying in your room, or when you’d smile at me. I thought… he’s so kind. He has a nice smile. I wanted to talk to you more, but I was always too shy.”

Ryujin nodded, moving to Karina’s side, a protective, supportive presence. “Same. I hid it better, I guess. Teasing you, playing around—that was my way of showing I liked you. But the real feeling… it was deeper. When Su-A suggested this trip, and said you were coming… I knew it was my chance. To stop hiding.”

Su-A finished washing her arms and turned to you, her hands slick with soap. “My turn,” she said, her tone gentle but firm. She began to wash your chest, her palms sliding over your skin, spreading the soap in slow, circular motions. It wasn’t a sexual touch, but it was deeply intimate. Her fingers traced over your collarbone, your pectorals, the dip of your sternum. “I knew about your crushes,” she said, her eyes focused on her task. “I’ve known for a while. I see how you look at them. And I see how they look at you, even when they think no one’s noticing.”

You stood still, letting her cleanse you. “So this trip… it wasn’t just a vacation.”

“No,” Su-A confirmed. “It was a setup. A gift. For you, and for them.” She rinsed her hands under the water, then started on your back. Her fingers worked over your shoulders, down your spine. “I have a… fantasy, like I said. Seeing you happy. Seeing you taken care of. By people I love. And seeing them happy, too. It’s a kink, I guess. A deep one. But it’s also just… love. In a messy, complicated, fucking perfect way.”

Ryujin took the body wash next. She didn’t soap herself up first. She stepped towards Karina. “Let me,” she said softly. Karina nodded, turning her back to Ryujin. Ryujin’s hands, strong and sure, began to wash Karina’s shoulders, her back, the dip of her waist. Karina closed her eyes, a soft sigh escaping her lips.

“You’re so beautiful, Karina,” Ryujin murmured, her voice devoid of its usual teasing edge. “I’ve always thought that.”

Karina’s eyes opened, shimmering with emotion. “You’re beautiful too, Ryujin. Strong and… fearless.”

They shared a look, a silent communication that spoke of years of friendship, now deepened by a night of shared passion and service.

The shower became a choreography of care. Su-A washed you. Ryujin washed Karina. Then Karina, gaining confidence, took the soap and turned to Ryujin, washing her toned arms, her lean stomach. You watched, the warmth of the water and the warmth of their actions seeping into your bones.

After a while, the roles shifted again. Su-A finished with you and stepped back under the rainfall to rinse. You took the soap and turned to Karina. She looked at you, her gaze trusting.

“Can I?” you asked.

She nodded. “Please.”

You started with her shoulders, just as Ryujin had. Her skin was incredibly soft, like warm silk under your soapy palms. You moved down her back, feeling the subtle curve of her spine, the swell of her hips. She was quiet, but her breathing deepened. When your hands slid around to her stomach, just above the water’s stream, she trembled slightly.

“You okay?” you whispered.

“Yes,” she breathed. “It’s just… your hands feel so good. Safe.”

You continued, washing her front with a tender, respectful touch. You avoided her breasts, focusing on her ribs, her stomach, the tops of her thighs. It was an act of service, a return of the care she’d given you.

When you were done, she turned and, without a word, began to wash you again, a reciprocation that felt like a silent vow.

Ryujin and Su-A were talking under the shower stream, their voices low.

“What happens after today?” Ryujin asked Su-A, a pragmatic question cutting through the tenderness.

Su-A tilted her head back, letting the water run over her face. “We go home. Back to reality. Jobs, routines, all that.”

Ryujin’s expression sobered. “And… this? What we just did? What we are?”

Su-A looked at Ryujin, then at you and Karina. “This doesn’t end because the trip ends. This is… a new part of our reality. If we all want it to be.”

Karina paused her washing of your arm. “I want it,” she said, her voice firmer than you’d ever heard it. “I don’t want to go back to just being your stepsister’s friend who visits sometimes. I want… more.”

Ryujin grinned, that familiar, wild smile returning. “Hell yes. I want more too. I want to fuck him in my apartment. I want to cook tteokbokki for him and have Karina there. I want to share him. With you, Su-A. With Karina.”

The word “share” hung in the steam-filled air. It wasn’t a dirty word here. It was a promise.

Su-A nodded. “It’ll be complicated. Logistics. Feelings. But we’re all adults. We can figure it out.” She looked at you. “What do you want?”

You’d been listening, your mind racing through scenarios. The idea of returning to your normal life—college, your part-time job, your quiet room—and then having this… this incredible, secret network of intimacy with these three women… it was dizzying.

“I want it all,” you said, the truth simple and stark. “I want Karina’s shy smiles in my kitchen. I want Ryujin’s teasing texts during my classes. I want Su-A’s… orchestrations. I want to be with you. All of you. In whatever way works.”

Ryujin laughed, a happy, relieved sound. “Then we’ll make it work. We’re a fucking good team, remember?”

The water continued to fall, rinsing away the soap, the sweat, the remnants of your shared climax. You were clean now, physically. But emotionally, you were raw, open, newly configured.

Su-A turned off the water. The sudden silence was striking. The only sound was the drip of water from bodies and the distant hum of the resort’s infrastructure.

“We should dry off,” Su-A said, practical again. “And then… the deck. The sunrise.”

There were thick, white cotton towels stacked on a heated rack. Ryujin grabbed a few and started handing them out. The act of drying each other became another intimate ritual. Karina toweled your back, her movements gentle. You dried her hair, blotting the water from her long, dark strands. Ryujin dried Su-A’s athletic limbs with a brisk, efficient touch, and Su-A returned the favor.

When you were all mostly dry, standing in the steamy bathroom, a new kind of tension began to weave itself into the air. It was the tension of anticipation. The promise of the sunrise, of the private deck, of a “last memory” still to be made.

Ryujin was the first to move towards the door leading to the deck. It was a sliding glass panel, currently showing a view of the dark ocean and a sky that was transitioning from deep night to a pre-dawn indigo.

“It’s cold outside,” she observed, “but the deck has those loungers. And we have towels. We can wrap up.”

Karina hesitated, looking at her naked body. “Outside… naked?”

Su-A smiled. “It’s our private deck. No one can see. And the sunrise… it’s worth it. It’s the last thing we’ll see here together.”

That decided it. Karina nodded, a brave little gesture.

You all stepped out of the bathroom, padding across the cool floor of the bungalow’s main room towards the deck door. Ryujin slid it open. A rush of cool, salt-tanged air swept in, a shock against your warm skin. It was exhilarating.

The deck was wide, made of smooth, treated wood. It extended out over the water, with a railing around the edge. There were two wide, padded sun loungers, a small table, and a couple of thick, waterproof blankets folded on a shelf.

Ryujin grabbed the blankets. “These’ll help.”

You all stepped out onto the deck. The world was quiet, the resort asleep, the only sound the gentle lap of water against the bungalow’s pylons below. The sky was a masterpiece of gradient color—deep blue at the horizon, fading to a lighter, star-studded expanse above. In the east, a thin line of orange was just beginning to bleed into the darkness.

Ryujin spread one blanket on a lounger. “Come on,” she said, gesturing for you to sit.

You settled onto the lounger, the padded surface cool under your thighs. Karina sat beside you, close, her body leaning against yours for warmth. Ryujin sat on your other side, and Su-A took the space next to Karina, completing a circle on the single, wide lounger. Ryujin draped the second blanket over all of you, a shared canopy of warmth.

For a few minutes, you just sat there, wrapped in the blanket, watching the sky change. The silence was profound, but not empty. It was filled with the weight of the night’s events, the honesty of the shower talk, the promise of the future.

Karina’s hand found yours under the blanket. She laced her fingers through yours, her grip firm and sure.

“I’m not scared anymore,” she said, her voice a soft murmur against your ear. “Not of you. Not of this. I feel… free.”

Ryujin leaned her head on your shoulder. “I feel the same. I’ve been hiding this part of me—the part that wants to submit, to serve, to share—for so long. With you… it’s just out. It’s just me.”

Su-A watched the horizon, her profile elegant in the dim light. “I feel satisfied,” she said. “My fantasy… it’s real now. It’s not just a thought in my head. It’s you, here, with them. And you’re happy. They’re happy. That’s… everything I wanted.”

You listened to their confessions, each one a piece of a puzzle that was now, finally, assembled. Your crush on Karina—her shyness melted into a brave, free desire. Your crush on Ryujin—her tomboyish teasing transformed into a raw, open vulnerability. Your relationship with Su-A—her playful orchestrations revealed as a deep, loving kink aimed at your happiness.

The orange line on the horizon thickened, bleeding upward into a band of gold. The stars began to fade, surrendering to the coming light.

“What will it be like at home?” you asked, the practical worries surfacing. “You two live together, right?”

Ryujin and Karina nodded. “We share an apartment,” Ryujin confirmed. “It’ll be easy, in a way. He can come over. We can… continue.”

Su-A shifted under the blanket. “I live close by. I can be part of it. Or… I can be the planner. The one who sets up the next ‘trip.’” She smiled, a sly, knowing smile. “Maybe not the Maldives next time. Maybe a cabin. Or a beach house.”

The idea of a future, of continuity, solidified in the cool morning air. It wasn’t a fleeting holiday fantasy. It was a blueprint for a new kind of life.

The gold band in the sky now erupted into a brilliant, fiery orange. The sun itself wasn’t visible yet, but its light began to paint the underside of the clouds in brilliant hues of pink and lavender. The ocean, previously a dark mirror, started to gleam, reflecting the dawn colors in shifting, liquid patterns.

Karina squeezed your hand tighter. “It’s so beautiful.”

Ryujin sighed, a contented sound. “A perfect last memory.”

But as the light grew, the intimacy of the blanket-shared lounger began to feel… charged again. The cool air, the breathtaking vista, the naked bodies pressed together for warmth—it was a recipe for renewed tension.

Su-A’s hand, under the blanket, moved. It didn’t go to you. It went to Karina’s hip, resting there, a gentle, possessive touch. Karina didn’t flinch; she leaned into it.

Ryujin’s head tilted, her lips brushing your shoulder. “You’re getting hard again,” she whispered, her raspy voice full of amusement. “I can feel it against my leg.”

You were. The combination of their words, their touches, the majestic sunrise, the sheer improbability of this moment—it was stirring your body despite your fatigue.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, half-embarrassed.

“Don’t be sorry,” Ryujin said, her tone turning low and hungry. “It’s a compliment.” Her hand slid under the blanket, finding your thigh. Her fingers traced upwards, not towards your cock, but just stroking your skin. “The sunrise is beautiful. But watching it while feeling you get ready for us… that’s even better.”

Karina’s breathing changed. She felt Ryujin’s movement, heard her words. Her own hand, still holding yours, began to tremble slightly. Not from fear, but from arousal.

Su-A watched the two of them, her expression serene but her eyes dark with understanding. “The tension is back,” she observed softly. “We said no more fucking in the shower. But we’re not in the shower anymore.”

The implication hung in the air, as bright as the rising sun.

The orange glow intensified, and then, a sliver of the sun itself breached the horizon—a brilliant, blinding crescent of pure light. It painted the world in sharp, golden outlines. Your skin, their skin, the wood of the deck, the water below—everything was illuminated in a sudden, glorious dawn.

In that burst of light, Karina turned her face to you. Her eyes were wide, reflecting the sunrise, but also reflecting a deep, unwavering desire. “I want to feel you,” she whispered, her voice clear and sure in the new light. “Not like last night. Not like in the living room. Something… quieter. Just you and me. While the sun comes up.”

Ryujin’s fingers paused on your thigh. She didn’t protest. She nodded, a supportive, happy nod. “You should,” she said to Karina. “You deserve a moment that’s just yours.”

Su-A agreed. “We’ll watch. We’ll be here.”

The offer, the permission, was breathtaking. Karina wanted a private moment with you, within this shared space, with her harem-sisters witnessing but not intervening.

Karina shifted under the blanket, moving so she was facing you more fully. The blanket fell away from her shoulders, exposing her upper body to the cool air and the golden light. Her breasts, full and heavy, were illuminated, the nipples tightening in the chill. She was breathtaking.

She leaned forward, her lips meeting yours. The kiss was different from any before. It was slow, deep, and filled with a profound emotional current. It wasn’t a kiss leading to a fuck; it was a kiss affirming a bond. Her tongue touched yours gently, a soft exploration.

When the kiss ended, she pulled back just enough to speak. “Lie back,” she murmured.

You did, shifting on the lounger so you were reclining against the padded headrest. Karina moved with you, settling between your legs, her body covering yours. The blanket was now mostly off, a discarded pool of fabric beside the lounger. The sunrise bathed your naked bodies in warm, vivid light.

Ryujin and Su-A sat on the edges of the lounger, their bodies close, their eyes on you and Karina. They were spectators, but their presence was supportive, loving.

Karina’s hands slid over your stomach, your chest. Her touch was worshipful, tender. She didn’t rush. She traced every line, every contour, as if memorizing you in the dawn light. Her fingers brushed over your nipples, your collarbone, the dip of your throat.

Then her hands moved lower. She took your cock in her hand, not to suck it, but to hold it. She just held it, her palm warm against your hardening flesh. She looked at it, then at you, her eyes soft.

“I love this part of you,” she said, her voice a reverent whisper. “I love how it feels. I love what it does to me. To us.”

She began to stroke you, her hand moving up and down with a slow, deliberate pace. It wasn’t the frantic pumping of a blowjob. It was a sensual massage, a communion. Her thumb brushed over the head, spreading the bead of pre-cum that had gathered there.

The sunrise continued its ascent, the sliver becoming a half-circle, then a full, blazing orb lifting from the sea. The world was now fully awake, golden and bright.

Karina’s strokes continued, her rhythm steady, her gaze locked with yours. You could see Ryujin and Su-A in your periphery, watching silently, their expressions soft and approving.

“I’m not going to make you come,” Karina said, her voice still that gentle whisper. “I just want to feel you. I want you to feel me. I want this memory to be… slow. Perfect.”

You nodded, your throat tight with emotion. “It’s perfect.”

She leaned down then, not to take you in her mouth, but to kiss the tip. A soft, lingering press of her lips against the sensitive head. Then she kissed your stomach, your thighs, everywhere but the core. It was a map of affection drawn on your body with her mouth.

Ryujin, watching, let out a soft sigh. “God, she’s good at this. So gentle.”

Su-A smiled. “She’s learning herself. And teaching us.”

Karina continued her gentle worship for minutes, her hands and lips exploring you as the sun climbed higher, its light warming your skin directly now, chasing away the chill of the dawn air. You were fully hard, aching with a need that was more emotional than physical. The need to be close to her, to be known by her in this quiet, sunlit way.

Eventually, she shifted her position. She rose up, kneeling between your legs, and then she lay down on top of you, her body aligning with yours, her breasts pressing against your chest, her stomach against yours, her legs straddling your hips. She wasn’t positioning herself for penetration; she was positioning herself for closeness. Her face nestled into the side of your neck, her breath warm against your skin.

“Hold me,” she whispered.

You wrapped your arms around her, holding her tight against you. Your cock was trapped between your stomach and hers, a hard, warm line of connection. You could feel her heartbeat against your chest, fast and steady.

Ryujin and Su-A moved closer. They didn’t touch you or Karina. They just sat beside the lounger, their hands finding each other’s under the discarded blanket. They held hands, watching you and Karina embrace under the full sunrise.

It was a moment of pure, unadulterated romance. The sex was in the past, and in the future. But right now, it was just this: holding Karina, feeling her love, witnessing the dawn with your harem-sisters as witnesses and participants in this new, complicated love.

Time seemed to stretch. The sun rose fully, turning from gold to a bright, daylight white. The magic of the sunrise moment passed, but the intimacy of the embrace did not.

Finally, Karina stirred. She lifted her head from your neck and looked at you. Her eyes were clear, happy, and utterly without shyness.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Thank you,” you replied.

She kissed you once more, a brief, sweet kiss, then she sat up, disentangling herself from you. The cool air hit your skin again, a reminder that the moment was over.

Ryujin stood up, stretching her arms overhead. “Okay. Now I’m hungry. And we need to pack.”

Su-A laughed, the sound breaking the solemn atmosphere. “Back to reality. But with a new map.”

Karina stood too, reaching for the towel to wrap around herself. You sat up, your body feeling lighter, clearer than it had all trip.

The sunrise had been witnessed. The last memory, as Ryujin had wanted, had been made. It wasn’t a frenzied fuck. It was a tender, sunlit embrace that solidified everything that had happened in the dark.

You all stood on the deck for a final moment, looking at the now-bright ocean, the fully awakened resort. The trip was ending. But something much bigger was beginning.

So you’d followed her. Jimin, though everyone called her Karina. She walked fast, head down against the weather, an oversized grey sweater swallowing her frame. She didn’t live in the dorms; she had a small studio apartment a few blocks off campus, in a building with a buzzer system that was more suggestion than security. You’d watched from across the street, under the awning of a closed convenience store, as she fumbled with her keys and vanished inside.

An hour passed. The light in her second-floor window glowed a soft yellow against the deepening grey of the evening. You were about to write it off as a wasted evening, a creeping dampness seeping into your leather shoes, when you saw it. A shift in the light. A flicker of blue from a screen. Her silhouette moved in front of the window, then she drew the blinds—but not completely. A slim, vertical gap remained, a blatant invitation for anyone who cared to look.

Curiosity, sharp and predatory, pulled you across the street and into the building’s foyer. The stairwell was quiet, smelling of old carpet and lemon cleaner. You took the steps two at a time, the sound masked by the rain thrashing against the windows. Her door was at the end of the hall, marked with a small, woven dreamcatcher. You didn’t knock. You just stood there, listening. At first, nothing. Then, a low, rhythmic thump of bass, tinny through the door. Music? No. Too mechanical, too persistent.

You leaned closer, your ear almost touching the painted wood. A gasp. Sharp, punched-out. Then a moan, low and strained, followed by the slick, wet sound of skin on skin.

A slow grin spread across your face. You knew that sound. You pulled your phone from your pocket, swiped to the camera, and carefully angled it through the gap in the blinds.

The scene inside was better than you could have written. Karina, the diligent, book-smart protector, the girl who’d stood between you and Seojun with fire in her eyes last week, was on her bed, a laptop propped beside her. The screen showed a graphic, pulsing tangle of bodies—a woman being taken from behind, hard. And Karina was mirroring them. Her sweater was gone, discarded in a heap on the floor. She wore only a simple white bra and cotton panties, her back arched off the mattress. One hand was shoved down her panties, moving frantically, the heel of her palm grinding against the fabric. The other hand pinched and pulled at her own nipple through the bra cup, her mouth hanging open in a silent ‘O’.

“F-fuck… yes…” she whimpered to the empty room, her voice a broken, husky thing you’d never heard her use. It was nothing like the clear, chastising tone she used on campus.

You hit record. The phone captured it all in pristine, high-definition clarity: the desperate rocking of her hips, the way her toes curled into the rumpled sheets, the sheen of sweat making her collarbone gleam. Her moans grew louder, less controlled, dissolving into a sobbing, guttural chant. “Oh god, oh god, right there, don’t stop, don’t—!” Her body went rigid, a silent scream etched on her lips as her back bowed off the bed in a violent shudder. She collapsed, chest heaving, limbs splayed like a broken doll.

You stopped recording. Saved the file. Labeled it: KARINATRUTH_. The whole thing was a masterpiece of hypocrisy.

You didn’t wait for her to recover. You raised your fist and hammered on the door, three times, hard enough to rattle the frame in its jamb.

The frantic scramble from inside was immediate. A thump, a hissed curse, the frantic snap of the laptop closing. “Who is it?” Her voice was pitched high with panic, trying and failing to sound normal.

“Open up, Karina.” You kept your tone flat, conversational, leaning your shoulder against the doorframe.

Silence. Then, tighter now, “Go away. It’s late.”

“I have a video.” You said it calmly, leaning close to the wood. “A very, very spicy video. Of you, moaning like a bitch in heat while you watch two guys absolutely ruin some other slut. It’s fucking cinematic.”

The silence that followed was absolute, thick enough to choke on. You heard a soft, choked sound. A sob, smothered.

“Now,” you continued, your voice dropping to a pleasant, malicious murmur. “You can let me in, and we can have a chat about your new hobby. Or I can just upload this to the campus network drive. Title it… what? ‘Karina’s Study Break’? ‘Seojun’s Protector Unprotected’? Your choice. But my thumb’s getting kinda twitchy.”

The lock turned. The door opened a crack, still secured by a flimsy brass chain. One wide, terrified eye stared out at you, red-rimmed and glistening. “Please,” she whispered, the word barely audible. “Just delete it. I’ll do anything.”

“Anything is a big word,” you said, smiling. It wasn’t a nice smile. “Prove it. Take the chain off.”

Her hand trembled violently as she fumbled with the chain. It rattled and fell with a cheap metallic clatter. You pushed the door open and stepped inside, closing it softly behind you with a definitive click.

The room was small, neat, and smelled like her—vanilla lotion, old books from the shelf by the desk, and now, the sharp, musky tang of sex. She stood frozen a few feet away, arms crossed over her chest, still in just her bra and panties. She was trying to look defiant, but her entire body was shaking. Fine tremors ran up her arms. Her skin was flushed, a deep, feverish pink that spread from her cheeks down her throat and across the tops of her breasts. Her lips were swollen, bruised-looking from her own teeth.

“Look at you,” you said, not moving from the door. You let your gaze travel over her, slow and appraising. “All worked up. Was it good? The video you were watching, I mean. Looked… intense.”

“Delete it,” she repeated, her voice a raw thread. She uncrossed her arms, as if realizing the pose did nothing to hide her state, then crossed them again, tighter. “You have no right.”

“I have every right,” you corrected, pulling out your phone and tapping the screen. Her own choked moans filled the small room, loud and obscene. Her eyes screwed shut in utter humiliation. You stopped the playback after just three seconds. “The right of the winner. You and Winter have been playing at being heroes, getting in my way. Protecting that worthless little worm. But this?” You gestured at her, at the room, at the closed laptop. “This shows me what you really are. Underneath all the books and the big sister act. You’re just a needy little slut with a hardcore kink.”

“I’m not—” she started, but the protest died in her throat as you took a single, deliberate step forward.

“You are. Your body says you are.” Your gaze dropped pointedly, lingering. The white cotton of her panties was visibly darkened, soaked through at the center, clinging to the shape of her. She flinched, trying to angle her hips away. “Don’t hide it. It’s the most honest thing about you right now.”

You closed the distance between you. She didn’t run. She didn’t scream. She just stood there, trembling, as you reached out and hooked a single finger under her chin, forcing her to look up at you. Tears welled in her eyes but didn’t fall, held back by sheer force of will. “What do you want?” she breathed, her warm, minty breath washing over your face.

“I want you to know your place.” Your thumb brushed over her bottom lip. It was incredibly soft, warm, and damp. “And your place is beneath me. Literally, figuratively, every which way.”

You leaned in. She stiffened, turning her head away. “Don’t—”

You grabbed the back of her neck, your fingers tangling in the dark silk of her hair, and pulled her face back to yours. “You don’t tell me ‘don’t,’” you growled against her mouth. Her lips were parted in protest, and you could feel the frantic puff of her breath. “You gave up that right when you opened the door. Now, you’re going to kiss me back. Or the video goes live in the next thirty seconds. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight…”

A tear finally spilled over, tracing a hot, salty path down her cheek. You waited, your grip firm, your lips a hair’s breadth from hers. You watched the war in her eyes—shame, rage, terror, and a horrible, dawning comprehension of her powerlessness. Then, with a shuddering exhale that was pure surrender, her body went pliant. Her lips, hesitant and cold at first, moved under yours.

It wasn’t passionate. It was submission. You took it, deepening the kiss, forcing her mouth open with yours. She tasted like mint toothpaste and the salt of her own tears. Her hands came up, not to push you away, but to rest weakly, palm-flat, against your chest. You bit her lower lip, not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to make her gasp, and she whimpered into your mouth, a sound that was equal parts fear and something else, something hotter and more shaming.

You broke the kiss, a string of saliva connecting your mouths for a second before it snapped. Her lips were redder now, bee-stung. Her breathing was ragged. “Good girl,” you murmured, the praise as degrading as any insult.

Your hands went to her back, finding the clasp of her bra between her shoulder blades. She flinched again, a full-body jerk, but didn’t stop you as you pinched the hooks and released them. The white fabric fell away, loose, and she caught it against her chest with a gasp. You didn’t let her. You pulled it from her hands and let it drop to the floor.

Her tits were fuller than you’d imagined, heavy and pale with perfect, pale pink nipples that were already stiff and pebbled from her earlier attention. You palmed one, weighing it, your thumb scraping roughly over the tight peak. A sharp, pained gasp hissed through her teeth.

“Sensitive,” you noted, pinching the nipple between your thumb and forefinger, twisting slowly. She cried out, her back arching, unconsciously pushing her chest further into your hand. “You like it rough. Of course you do. Look at what you watch.”

You pushed her backward, not gently. She stumbled, her legs hitting the edge of the narrow bed, and she sat down hard. You stood over her, looking down, a king surveying new territory. “Take the panties off.”

She stared up at you, her eyes glazed, unfocused. “H-here?”

“Right here. Right now.” You tilted your head. “Show me what I own.”

Her hands shook so violently you thought she might fail. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her cotton panties. She lifted her hips off the bed, wriggling them down her legs—a clumsy, graceless motion—and let them fall to the floor beside your feet. She was completely exposed, her knees pressed together tightly, her thighs gleaming in the lamplight. The neat, delicate folds of her pussy were slick, glistening. A faint, swollen hood barely concealed her clit. She was shaved bare, which only made her look more vulnerable.

“Open,” you commanded, your voice leaving no room for debate.

A sob caught in her throat. Slowly, hesitantly, as if moving through syrup, she let her knees fall apart.

The sight sent a jolt of pure, aggressive heat straight to your cock, straining against your jeans. She was drenched. Her inner lips were puffy and wet, a gleaming, flushed pink. A thin, silvery trail of her own arousal had smeared on her inner thigh. She was the picture of debauched, shameful arousal, and the absolute humiliation radiating from her only made it better, hotter.

You knelt down on the floor in front of her, putting your face level with her cunt. She jerked, trying to slam her legs closed, but you were faster. You grabbed her thighs, your fingers digging into the soft flesh, and forced them wider, holding her open. “Stay.”

You didn’t touch her with your mouth. You just looked, studying her like a specimen, leaning in so close you could feel the heat radiating from her. The smell of her, sweet and pungent and utterly female, filled your senses. “Look at this mess,” you said, your voice low, almost conversational. “All this for a video. Imagine what you’ll do for the real thing.”

You leaned forward and blew a soft, cool stream of air across her exposed, glistening flesh.

She jolted as if electrocuted, a broken, whimpering “Ah!” escaping her. Her hips gave an involuntary little jerk forward, seeking contact.

“You want more?” you asked, looking up at her face. She was staring down at you, her expression a wreck of humiliation and a need she couldn’t hide. She shook her head frantically, but her body betrayed her. Her pussy visibly clenched, fluttering open and closed, a shiny, pink invitation.

“Liar,” you whispered. You brought your hand up and dragged a single finger through her slickness, from her entrance all the way up to her clit. The wet, hot slide was obscenely loud. She gasped, her head falling back, throat working. You rubbed the pad of your finger in a slow, deliberate circle over the swollen, hard little nub. Her thighs tensed under your grip, muscles corded.

“N-no… stop…” she pleaded, but it was a whisper, without conviction, her voice breaking on the last word.

“You don’t get to tell me to stop,” you said, increasing the pressure, watching her face contort. Her breath started coming in short, sharp pants. “You get to take what I give you. And right now, I’m giving you a lesson.” You removed your hand, holding your glistening finger up for her to see. “See that? That’s you. That’s your truth. Not the girl who stands up to me on campus. This wet, desperate cunt is who you really are.”

You stood up, wiping your finger clean on the thigh of your dark jeans. She sat there, exposed and trembling, watching you with huge, lost eyes. You made a show of unbuttoning your own jeans, the snick of the button and the rasp of the zipper loud in the quiet room. Her gaze dropped to your hands, then flew back to your face, wider still, a new kind of fear dawning there.

You didn’t take them off. You just freed your cock, letting it spring out, already thick and heavy with arousal. It wasn’t fully hard yet, but the sheer size of it—the thick, prominent veins mapping the shaft, the broad, flushed head—made her breath catch audibly. You saw her throat work as she swallowed, her eyes glued to it.

“This,” you said, wrapping your hand around the base, giving it a slow, deliberate stroke, feeling it swell further under your touch, “is what you’re going to learn to worship. This is what’s going to ruin you for any other pathetic dick. You understand?”

She just stared, hypnotized, her mouth slightly open.

“I asked you a question.”

“Y-yes,” she stammered.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes… I understand.”

“Good.” You took another step forward, until the fat, hot tip brushed against her kneecap. She flinched at the contact, the heat of your skin against hers. “Now, you’re going to help me with Winter. Your little friend. The one who likes to slap me.”

Karina’s eyes flashed with a last, dying spark of defiance. “Leave her alone.”

You smirked. You tapped your phone, still in your other hand, against your thigh. “Or what? You’ll stop me? You can’t even stop your own hand from between your legs when you’re supposed to be studying.” You leaned down, bracing your hands on the mattress on either side of her hips, caging her in. Your face was inches from hers. “You’re going to bring her to me. You’re going to make sure she’s… receptive. However you need to do it. And you’re going to watch.”

“I won’t,” she whispered, but the fight was draining from her voice, replaced by a hollow, grinding dread.

“You will.” You straightened up, looking down at her with cold certainty. “Because if you don’t, this video, and a whole album of photos I’m about to take of the mess I’m going to make of you, goes to everyone. Your professors. Your parents. Seojun.” You let that last name hang in the air, let it sink its hooks into her. “Imagine him seeing this. Seeing his perfect Karina, naked, moaning, getting used. It’ll break whatever pathetic little heart he has left. You want that? To be the thing that finally shatters him?”

The last of her resistance crumbled. Her shoulders slumped, her spine curving in defeat. She looked down at her own naked body, then at your cock, so close to her. A fresh tear dripped off her chin and landed with a soft pat on her thigh. “What… what do you want me to do?” The question was a defeated sigh, the sound of total capitulation.

“First,” you said, your voice turning darkly playful. “Get on your knees.”

She slid off the bed, her movements slow and stiff like a puppet with cut strings, and knelt on the floor between your feet. The top of her head came to your navel. From this angle, you could see the elegant, vulnerable line of her spine, the gentle curve of her ass. She kept her eyes fixed on the floorboards.

“Look at it,” you ordered.

She lifted her gaze, staring at your cock, now fully erect and jutting toward her face. Up close, the size was even more imposing. The thick, veined shaft, the broad, smooth head, the faint, musky scent of your own arousal. Her lips parted slightly.

“You’re going to learn it,” you said, guiding the head to trace her lips. They were soft, yielding. “Every inch, every vein. But not tonight.” You pulled back, denying the contact she seemed to instinctively lean into. “Tonight, you just get a taste of what’s coming.”

You gripped the base again and aimed. With your other hand, you grabbed a handful of her hair, not yanking, just holding her head firmly in place. “Open wide, slut.”

A choked, miserable sound escaped her, but she obeyed, parting her lips. You didn’t push inside. You just rubbed the slick, fat head of your cock over her lips, smearing pre-cum across her mouth, then dragged it over her cheeks, painting her face with it. She squeezed her eyes shut, tears leaking from the corners, but she didn’t pull away. Her breath was hot and rapid against your sensitive skin.

“This is your makeup now,” you grunted, the sensation of her soft skin and the visual of her degradation driving you wild. You marked her throat, the line of her jaw. “The only thing you need. Remember this smell. Remember this taste. This is what you belong to.”

You finally pulled back. Her face was a mess, glistening with saliva and your fluids. She looked utterly broken, yet a faint, traitorous pink flush still colored her chest and neck. Her nipples were hard, aching peaks.

“Now,” you said, your voice thick with lust, tucking yourself back into your jeans but leaving them undone, the heavy weight of your cock obvious against the fly. “Get back on the bed. On your back. I want a picture of my new pet in her natural state.”

She climbed onto the bed, moving like she was in a dream, and lay back against the pillows. She didn’t try to cover herself. She just stared at the ceiling, tears streaming silently down her temples and into her hair. You pulled out your phone again, switching to the camera. You took several pictures: a close-up of her tear-streaked face, a shot of her tits with their pert, abused nipples, a graphic, detailed photo of her splayed, wet cunt. You made her turn over, took pictures of the curve of her ass. Each click of the shutter was a nail in the coffin of her old life.

You stood at the foot of the bed, looking at the collection on your screen. Perfect. “Tomorrow,” you said, putting the phone away. “You text Winter. You tell her you need to talk, that it’s urgent. About me. You get her somewhere private. And you make sure she’s ready to listen. You prepare her. You make her understand that crossing me has consequences… and that those consequences can feel very, very good if she just learns to behave.”

Karina said nothing. She just lay there, a beautiful, used doll.

“Nod if you understand, pet.”

Slowly, she nodded, her hair rustling against the pillow.

“Good.” You walked to the door, pausing with your hand on the knob. You looked back at her, a final smirk playing on your lips. “Clean yourself up. You’ve got work to do.”

The silence in Karina’s apartment the next evening was a physical thing, thick and sour with dread. You leaned against her kitchen counter, sipping a glass of water you’d poured yourself, watching her. She sat rigidly on the edge of her bed, still in her campus clothes—a loose sweater and jeans—her fingers twisting themselves into knots in her lap. She hadn’t looked at you since you’d arrived, your presence a cold anchor in the room.

“She’s coming,” Karina said, her voice flat. “I told her I was having a breakdown about you. That I needed to talk.”

“Good pet,” you said, the praise like a slap. She flinched. “Remember the script. You’re scared. You’re worried about what I might do. And you’re going to help her understand that being nice to me… feels a lot better than being my enemy.”

The buzzer from downstairs rattled, sharp and invasive. Karina jumped as if shocked. You just smiled, setting the glass down with a soft clink. “That’s her. Let her in.”

Karina moved like a ghost to the intercom, pressing the button. “It’s open.” Her voice cracked.

You positioned yourself in the shadowed corner by the door, out of immediate sight. You heard the rapid, light footsteps on the stairs, a familiar, angry rhythm. The door flew open without a knock.

“Jimin, what the hell is going on? Your text sounded like you were—” Winter’s voice, full of sharp concern, cut off as she took in the scene. Karina, pale and trembling. The closed blinds. The tense, charged air. Her eyes, narrow and intelligent, scanned the room, missing nothing. “What’s wrong?”

Then she saw you. You stepped forward, just enough to be fully visible, leaning a shoulder against the wall. Her whole body went rigid. Her pretty, sharp-featured face, usually set in a mask of cool disdain, flashed with instant, white-hot fury.

“You,” she spat. “What are you doing here? Get out.”

“Minjeong, wait—” Karina started, but Winter was already stepping forward, putting herself between you and her friend. The same protective move she always pulled with Seojun. It made your cock twitch in your jeans.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said, your voice calm, conversational. “Karina invited me. We’ve been… getting to know each other better. Isn’t that right?”

Karina’s silence was answer enough. Winter’s gaze darted to her friend, seeing the shame, the defeat. The fury in her eyes simmered down into something colder, more calculating. “What did you do to her?”

“I showed her a good time,” you shrugged. “And I’ve got the videos to prove it. Really spicy stuff. The kind of thing that would make all her professors—and her parents—see her in a whole new light.”

Winter’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. “You’re a disgusting pig. You recorded her? That’s illegal.”

“So call the cops,” you challenged, pushing off the wall and taking a step toward her. She didn’t back up. She held her ground, chin lifted, but you could see the rapid pulse in her throat. “Let’s see how fast Karina’s face is plastered on every forum from here to Seoul. ‘Honor Student’s Secret Porn Habit.’ Catchy, right?”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I already have the files uploaded to a timed cloud drive,” you lied smoothly. “If I don’t enter a code every twelve hours, they go to a pre-set mailing list. Your parents are on it, Karina. So is your scholarship committee.”

A broken sound escaped Karina. Winter’s resolve wavered, just for a second. You saw it—the flicker of fear beneath the anger. The understanding that this wasn’t a bluff she could call.

“What do you want?” Winter asked, her voice tight.

“From you?” You closed the final step between you. She was tall, but you still had a few inches on her. You looked down into her fierce, hate-filled eyes. “An apology would be a start. For that little slap you gave me.”

“Go to hell.”

You chuckled. “Feisty. I like that. It’ll make breaking you so much more fun.” Your hand shot out, not to hit her, but to grab the back of her neck, your fingers tangling in her short, dark hair. She gasped, her hands coming up to claw at your wrist. “Apologize.”

“Fuck you!” she snarled, trying to wrench away. Her strength was surprising, fueled by pure rage.

“Karina,” you said, not taking your eyes off Winter. “Show her what happens when you disobey.”

From the bed, Karina made a choked noise. “Please… don’t make me…”

“The video, Karina. Play it for her. Just the audio. Let her hear what her best friend sounds like when she comes.”

Tears streamed down Karina’s face, but she fumbled for her laptop on the nightstand. Her hands shook violently as she opened it, navigated to a file. A second later, the room was filled with the sound of her own voice, ragged and desperate, moaning, “F-fuck… yes… right there, don’t stop, oh god!”

Winter froze. The fight drained from her muscles, replaced by a horrified, gut-deep shock. Her grip on your wrist went slack. She stared past you at Karina, whose face was buried in her hands, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

“Turn it off,” Winter whispered.

You squeezed the back of her neck, a warning pressure. “Apologize.”

Her throat worked. She was trembling now, fine tremors you could feel under your palm. The sound of Karina’s debauched pleasure was a weapon you’d turned against them both. “I’m… I’m sorry,” she forced out, the words gritted, hollow.

“For what? Be specific.”

“For slapping you.” Each word was like pulling a tooth.

“Good.” You released her neck, but didn’t move back. “Now, you’re going to learn the same lesson Karina did. Your place is beneath me. And tonight, you’re going to prove you know it.”

“I’m not doing anything with you,” she said, but the defiance was a thin veneer now, cracking.

“You are.” You reached for the hem of her fitted black t-shirt. She slapped your hands away.

“Don’t touch me!”

You backhanded her.

It wasn’t a hard hit, but it was sharp, sudden, snapping her head to the side. A red mark bloomed on her cheekbone. She gasped, more in shock than pain, her hand flying to her face. Her eyes, wide and glistening, locked on yours, brimming with a new kind of terror—and a dark, unwanted flicker of something else.

“You hit me,” she breathed.

“And I’ll do it again,” you said, your voice low. “I’ll do whatever I want to you. And by the end of tonight, you’re going to beg me for more. Take off the shirt. Or I make Karina do it for you.”

Winter looked at Karina, a silent plea for help that died unspoken. Her friend was a broken statue, unable to meet her eyes. The last of her resistance crumbled. With stiff, jerky motions, her gaze fixed on the floor, she grabbed the hem of her t-shirt and pulled it over her head, letting it fall.

Her torso was lean, toned. She wore a simple black sports bra, the kind meant for utility, not seduction. It compressed her small, pert breasts, but you could still see the shape of them, the tight points of her nipples pressing against the fabric. Her skin was smooth, pale, with a light dusting of goosebumps.

“The rest,” you commanded.

Her fingers went to the button of her jeans. The snick of the button, the rasp of the zipper, were loud in the silent room. She pushed them down her hips, stepping out of them, kicking them aside. She stood before you in just her bra and a pair of simple black cotton panties. Her legs were long, beautifully shaped. She was shivering.

“On the bed. Next to your friend.”

She walked to the bed, movements stiff with humiliation, and sat beside Karina, leaving a foot of space between them. She kept her arms crossed over her chest, her knees pressed tightly together.

“Karina,” you said, your tone turning conversational, almost friendly. “Help your friend relax. Touch her.”

Karina’s head snapped up, her eyes terrified. “What?”

“You heard me. You’re my pet now. Pets do tricks. Touch her. Show her it’s okay.”

“I can’t,” Karina whimpered.

You pulled out your phone, tapped the screen, and the audio of her moans filled the room again for a three-second burst. Winter flinched. Karina squeezed her eyes shut.

“You can, and you will,” you said. “Or the next tap sends it to her phone. And her mother’s.”

Karina sobbed, a raw, ugly sound. Slowly, as if her limbs were made of lead, she turned to Winter. Her face was a mask of agony. “Minjeong… I’m so sorry…”

“Don’t,” Winter whispered, but it was too late.

Karina’s trembling hand reached out and settled on Winter’s bare thigh. Winter jolted at the contact, a sharp inhale hissing through her teeth. Karina’s touch was feather-light, terrified. She began to move her hand in a slow, meaningless circle on Winter’s skin.

“See?” you crooned, walking to the foot of the bed, looking down at both of them. “It’s not so bad. Now kiss her.”

Winter’s eyes flew open. “No.”

“Karina. Kiss her. Or I start sending files.”

Karina leaned in, tears streaming. Winter turned her face away. “Jimin, don’t—”

But Karina was beyond refusal. She cupped Winter’s cheek, her touch desperate, and turned her face back. She pressed her lips to Winter’s. It was a dry, chaste, miserable press of skin. Winter went utterly still, rigid with revulsion.

You laughed, a low, dark sound. “Pathetic. Let me show you how it’s done.” You climbed onto the bed, kneeling between Winter’s spread legs. She tried to slam them shut, but you planted a hand on each of her inner thighs, forcing them apart, your thumbs digging into the soft muscle. “Open for me.”

She fought you, her thigh muscles corded, straining against your grip. You just increased the pressure, leaning your weight into it. “You can’t win. Your body already knows it.” Your gaze dropped to her panties. The black cotton was pristine, but as you held her open, a faint, musky scent—her scent—reached you. Fear, yes. But underneath it, the first hint of something warmer, more animal.

You released one thigh and hooked your thumb into the waistband of her panties. She gasped, her hands flying down to stop you, but you caught both her wrists in one of your hands, pinning them above her head on the pillow. She was strong, but you were stronger, and the leverage was all yours.

“Karina, take them off her,” you ordered, your eyes locked on Winter’s.

Karina, sniffling, obeyed. She hooked her fingers into the other side of the waistband and, with Winter kicking weakly, pulled the panties down her legs and off.

Winter was bare underneath. Neat, delicate. Her labia were a pale, flushed pink, nestled in a small, tidy triangle of dark hair. They were closed tightly together, a smooth, unyielding seam. But as the cool air hit her, and as she strained against your grip, the lips parted slightly, revealing a glimmer of wetness within.

“Look at that,” you murmured. “Not so icy after all, are you?” You leaned down, bringing your face close to her cunt. You didn’t touch her with your mouth. You just exhaled, a warm, damp breath directly onto her exposed flesh.

She jolted, a full-body shudder, a choked “Ah!” escaping her. Her hips gave an involuntary little jerk, lifting off the mattress toward the source of heat.

The room smelled like sex. Thick, musky, ripe. The blinds were still drawn, trapping the sour-sweet scent of sweat, cum, and defeated pride. You lounged back in Karina’s desk chair, your feet propped on the edge of her unmade bed, scrolling through your phone. On the screen, a gallery of photos and videos you’d taken over the last twenty-four hours played in a silent, obscene slideshow.

On the bed, the two girls were tangled together, sleeping. Or trying to. Winter’s head was pillowed on Karina’s stomach, one of Karina’s hands absently carding through Winter’s short, dark hair. Both were naked, their skin marked with the evidence of your ownership—red handprints on hips and asses, faint bruises blooming on thighs and wrists, the sticky, dried traces of your spend glazing their inner thighs and the thatches of their pubic hair.

You’d fucked them for hours. After breaking Winter, you’d made Karina taste her friend on your cock. Then you’d flipped Winter over and fucked her ass, her screams of protest melting into sobs of agonizing pleasure as her tight, virgin hole was stretched and claimed. You’d made Karina watch, then ordered her to lick Winter’s ass clean after you pulled out. You’d taken turns, one girl riding your cock while the other sucked your balls or kissed you, their mouths meeting over your skin. You’d come in Winter’s womb again, then made Karina suck you hard and shoved yourself back into Winter’s sloppy, overfilled cunt before you were even fully erect.

They’d lost count of their orgasms. They’d lost themselves.

A soft sound pulled your attention from your phone. Winter was stirring. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused, then found you. A jolt went through her—not fear, not anger. Something else. Her hips gave a tiny, unconscious grind against the sheets. A faint pink tinged her cheeks.

“You’re awake,” you said, your voice flat.

She didn’t look away. Her tongue darted out to wet her swollen lips. “Yeah.”

“Thirsty?”

She nodded, a slight, jerky movement. You gestured to the nightstand where two glasses of water sat. She shifted, waking Karina, who blinked sleepily. Without a word, Karina reached for a glass, took a sip, then held it for Winter to drink. The submissive care was automatic, intimate. You watched, a slow smile spreading on your face.

“Good,” you murmured. “You’re learning.”

Karina’s eyes met yours over the rim of the glass. There was no fight left in them. Just a deep, weary acceptance, and underneath it, a shimmering heat. You’d seen it last night, after the fourth or fifth time she’d come. The moment the shame had burned away, leaving only raw, desperate need. She’d begged you for it. “Please, fuck me again, I need it, I need your cock, please—”

You put your phone down. “Sit up. Both of you.”

They moved slowly, stiffly, pushing themselves up to lean against the headboard. They didn’t bother covering themselves. Winter’s small, pert tits were on full display, her nipples dark and peaked. Karina’s larger, fuller breasts swayed with the movement, the pale skin marked with love bites from your mouth. Their pussies were a mess—puffy, well-used lips glistening with a mixture of drying fluids, slightly parted.

“We have a project today,” you said, leaning forward. “A final lesson. For everyone.”

Winter’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“Seojun.”

The name hung in the air like a struck bell. Karina flinched. Winter’s body went rigid, a flash of the old protectiveness surfacing. “What about him?”

“He thinks you’re his saviors. His guardian angels.” You let out a low, humorless laugh. “He needs to see the truth. He needs to see what his guardians really are. What they live for.”

Karina’s voice was a whisper. “No.”

“Yes.” You picked up your phone again, opening the video call app. “You’re going to call him. You’re going to tell him you need to talk, that it’s an emergency. And then you’re going to show him. You’re going to show him how his campus angels worship my cock.”

“I won’t,” Winter said, but her voice lacked conviction. It was a reflex, a ghost of her former self.

You stood up, walking to the bed. You cupped Winter’s chin, forcing her to look at you. Your thumb stroked her cheek, over the faint red mark from your slap. “You will. Because you want to. Look at you. You’re soaking the sheets just thinking about it.”

Her gaze dropped. She was. A fresh, dark patch was spreading on the sheet beneath her bare cunt. A shaky breath escaped her.

“And you,” you said, turning to Karina. You trailed your fingers down her neck, over her collarbone, until you pinched her nipple hard, twisting. She gasped, her back arching, pushing her breast into your hand. “You’re my good pet. You’ll do anything I say. And you like it.”

“I… I do,” she admitted, the words choked with shame and lust. Her own hand drifted down between her legs, her fingers brushing her swollen clit. A soft “ah…” hissed from her lips.

“See?” You released Karina’s nipple and unbuttoned your jeans. Your cock, half-hard from the display, sprang free. It was thick, heavy, the veins prominent. Both girls’ eyes locked onto it instantly. A hungry, helpless focus. “This is what you are now. This is all you are. And Seojun deserves to know.”

You thrust your hips forward, the head of your cock bumping against Winter’s lips. “Make the call, Karina. Now.”

With trembling hands, Karina picked up her own phone from the nightstand. Her face was pale, but her eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. She found Seojun’s contact, her thumb hovering over the video call button. She looked at you for confirmation.

You nodded, then pushed the tip of your cock past Winter’s lips. She opened for you instantly, a low moan vibrating around your shaft as you slid into the wet heat of her mouth. “Do it.”

Karina pressed the button.

The dial tone trilled in the quiet room. You began to fuck Winter’s face slowly, watching the screen over Karina’s shoulder. After two rings, it connected.

Seojun’s face filled the screen. He looked worried, his eyes wide behind his glasses. “Jimin? What’s wrong? Your text said it was an emergency—”

“It is,” Karina said, her voice surprisingly steady. She angled the phone, framing herself and the scene beside her. “It’s about… him.”

Seojun’s gaze shifted, taking in Karina’s naked torso, the bite marks on her breasts. Then he saw Winter. Saw your hips moving, saw the shape of your cock distorting her cheek, heard the wet, gagging sounds as you thrust deeper.

His face went through a journey of pure, uncomprehending horror. “Wha… what is… Minjeong? What is happening?”

You pulled your cock out of Winter’s mouth with a slick pop. A string of saliva connected her lips to your tip. She gasped for air, her eyes dazed, her tongue lolling out.

“Say hello, Seojun,” you said, your voice dripping with mock cheerfulness. You gripped Winter’s hair, turning her face toward the phone. “Your hero is busy.”

“N-no… stop this…” Seojun stammered, his voice breaking.

“Oh, we’re just getting started,” you chuckled. You moved behind Winter, pulling her up onto her knees. You spat on your hand, slicked your cock, and without preamble, guided it to her pussy. She was so wet it slid right in, the entrance offering a hot, liquid grip. You sank to the hilt in one smooth, deep stroke.

Winter’s head fell back, a broken, gorgeous scream tearing from her throat. “FUUUCK!”

On the phone screen, Seojun’s mouth hung open. He was frozen, tears welling in his eyes. “Please… don’t hurt them…”

“Hurt them?” You began to move, setting a slow, deep, punishing rhythm. Each thrust rocked Winter’s entire body forward. “Look at her, you pathetic worm. Does she look hurt?”

She didn’t. Her face was contorted in ecstasy. “Yes! Oh god, yes! Right there!” she screamed, her hands flying back to clutch at your thighs. Her cunt was clamping down on you, a pulsing, milking vise. “It’s so deep! You’re splitting me open!”

“She loves it,” you grunted, picking up speed. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh, of wet, messy fucking, filled the room and echoed through the phone. “She’s a cocksleeve. A fucktoy. Just like her friend.”

You glanced at Karina. “Your turn, pet. Show him.”

Karina didn’t hesitate. A twisted, eager light was in her eyes now. She brought the phone closer, turning it so the camera captured her face, then slowly panned down her body. She cupped her breasts, squeezing them, pinching her own nipples until she whimpered. Then she moved the phone lower, over the flat plane of her stomach, down to the neat triangle of her pubic hair. Her other hand was already there, two fingers plunging into her soaked, gaping pussy.

“See, Seojun?” Karina moaned, her voice a slutty, breathy purr. “See how empty I am? I need it. I need his cock in me right now.” She fucked herself with her fingers, scissoring them, drawing out slick, obscene sounds. “Mmmph… ah! He ruined me. He ruined us. And we love it.”

On the screen, Seojun was crying openly, silent tears streaming down his face. He couldn’t look away.

You were pounding into Winter now, your balls slapping against her ass. You reached around her body, your fingers finding her clit. You rubbed it in hard, tight circles, matching the rhythm of your thrusts.

“I’m gonna come!” Winter shrieked, her body bowing. “I’m gonna come on his cock! Oh god, Seojun, I’m gonna come! Watch me!”

Her orgasm hit like a storm. Her cunt clenched around you in a series of violent, fluttering spasms. She screamed, a raw, continuous sound of absolute surrender. “AAAAHHHHH! YES! FUCK! BREED ME! FILL MY WORTHLESS CUNT!” Her juices gushed, soaking your cock and thighs, dripping onto the sheets below.

You fucked her through it, grinding deep, your cockhead battering against her softened, willing cervix. You felt it give, the tight ring stretching around the tip, allowing you to pierce into her womb once more. She sobbed, overstimulated, her body convulsing.

“Too much… too good… don’t stop… fuck your slut…” she babbled, her words slurring into mindless pleasure.

You held her hips tight, your own climax coiling in your gut. But you weren’t ready. You pulled out, your cock gleaming, dripping with her cum. Winter collapsed onto the bed, twitching and mewling.

“Karina,” you barked.

She was already moving, dropping the phone on the pillow where it still captured Seojun’s shattered expression. She got on all fours in front of you, presenting her ass. Her pussy lips were swollen, dark pink, glistening. She looked back over her shoulder, her eyes begging. “Please. I need it. Fuck me. Use me.”

You didn’t make her wait. You positioned yourself and drove into her. She was looser than Winter, stretched from the night before, but still gloriously tight. She let out a shuddering, grateful cry. “YES! FUCK! GIVE IT TO ME!”

You set a brutal pace immediately, pounding into her from behind. The bed shook. Karina pushed back against you, meeting every thrust, her tits swaying wildly. She reached between her legs, rubbing her clit furiously. “Harder! Oh fuck, harder! Destroy my pussy! Make me your bitch!”

You gripped her hair, yanking her head back. “Tell him what you are!”

She screamed it into the phone. “I’m a whore! I’m his stupid, needy whore! I live for this cock! Seojun, you see? This is all I’m good for!”

You felt your orgasm rising, unstoppable. You pistoned into her, the wet, sloppy sounds of your fucking a obscene soundtrack. You aimed for her cervix, driving into it with jackhammer force.

“I’m gonna fill you,” you growled. “I’m gonna pump your womb full of cum. You want that?”

“YES!” she wailed. “Breed me! Knock me up! I want your babies! Please, I need your cum inside me!”

That did it. With a final, deep, grinding thrust that buried your cock to the hilt and pressed your pelvis flush against her ass, you came.

It was a torrent. A flood. Thick, hot ropes of cum shot directly into her cervix, spilling into her womb. You could feel the pulses, jet after jet, painting her insides. You groaned, a deep, animal sound, as you emptied yourself completely into her.

Karina’s second orgasm triggered from the feel of it. Her body locked up, her back arching, a silent scream on her lips as her cunt milked you, squeezing and fluttering, trying to suck out every last drop.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of heavy breathing and the soft, wet drip of cum leaking from Karina’s stretched hole as you slowly pulled out.

You turned to the phone. Seojun was still there. He looked hollow, broken. He’d seen everything.

You picked up the phone, holding it so your face filled the screen. “Now you know,” you said, your voice calm, final. “Your angels are my sluts. They belong to me. Their bodies, their moans, their cunts… mine. If you ever speak to them again, if you even look at them, I’ll send this entire video to everyone you’ve ever met. Do you understand?”

He nodded, a tiny, broken motion.

“Good.” You ended the call.

The silence that followed was different. Not tense, not dread-filled. It was sated. Heavy with the aftermath of raw, degrading sex.

Karina rolled onto her back, her legs still spread. Your cum was already leaking out of her, a white rivulet tracing a path down her thigh. She didn’t try to stop it. She just watched it, a faint, blissed-out smile on her face.

Winter crawled over to you, nuzzling her face against your hip. Her hand wrapped around your softening cock, smearing the mixed fluids there. “Mmm… you’re still so big,” she murmured, her voice hoarse. She brought her fingers to her mouth and licked them clean. “Tastes like us. And you.”

You looked down at the two of them. The transformation was complete. The fire in Winter’s eyes was gone, replaced by a dazed, cock-drunk adoration. The shame in Karina’s was erased, superseded by a desperate, hungry devotion. They were pets. Sluts. Yours.

Karina sat up, her eyes fixed on your cock. “Can… can I clean you?” she asked, her tone submissive, eager.

Winter whined. “I want to.”

You smirked. “You can both do it.”

They moved together, a well-practiced team now. Winter took the head into her mouth, sucking gently, her tongue lapping at the slit. Karina leaned down, licking along the shaft, cleaning the mess from your balls. They moaned as they did it, the vibrations pleasing against your sensitive skin.

You let them worship you for a minute, then gently pushed them away. “Enough.”

They pulled back, staring up at you with identical expressions of wanton need. “You want it,” you stated, looking up her body to her face. Her eyes were screwed shut, her teeth digging into her swollen lower lip. “You can lie to me, but you can’t lie to your own cunt. It’s already getting wet for me.”

To prove it, you released her wrists and brought your hand down. You dragged your middle finger through her folds, from the tight, hidden entrance all the way up to the small, hard nub of her clit. The slide wasn’t dry. It was met with a slick, hot resistance. She was wet. Terrified, hating you, but wet.

A low, guttural groan was torn from her throat. Her back arched off the bed.

“See?” you said, holding your glistening finger up for her to see. “This is you, Winter. This is what you really are. A slut waiting for a real cock to put her in her place.”

You unbuttoned your own jeans, finally freeing your cock. It sprang out, fully hard now, thick and heavy, the veins standing in stark relief against the flushed skin. The sight of it—the sheer, intimidating size of it—made Winter’s eyes go wide. Her breath caught in a ragged gasp.

“Oh fuck,” she whispered, the curse slipping out in pure, unvarnished shock.

“That’s right,” you grinned. You stroked yourself slowly, watching her watch you. “This is what’s going inside you. This is what’s going to split you open and make you forget your own name.”

You didn’t bother with foreplay. You positioned yourself between her legs, using your knees to force her thighs wider apart. She was panting now, short, sharp breaths, her chest rising and falling rapidly under the sports bra. You gripped the base of your cock and pressed the broad, slick head against her entrance. She was tight, impossibly tight, the small opening clenching nervously.

“Relax,” you growled. “Or this will hurt a lot more.”

“Please, don’t—” she started, but you pushed.

The head of your cock began to stretch her open. Her body resisted, her inner muscles clamping down in a vice-like spasm of panic. A sharp, pained cry tore from her lips. “Nnngh! S-stop!”

You ignored her. You leaned over her, bracing your weight on one hand beside her head, the other gripping her hip hard enough to bruise. You put your shoulder into it and shoved forward.

There was a terrible, tearing sensation of giving way, then a hot, impossibly tight sheath enveloped the head of your cock. Winter screamed, a raw, shattered sound. “AAAAHHHH! FUCK! IT HURTS!” Her body went rigid, her nails digging into your forearm, her back bowing off the bed.

You paused, letting her adjust for only a second, savoring the exquisite tightness, the burning heat of her virgin cunt. “That’s it,” you grunted. “Take it. You wanted to play with the big boys, Winter. Now you’ve got one.”

You pulled back an inch, then drove forward again, sinking another thick inch into her resisting body. She sobbed, a broken, wet sound. “N-no more… please… too big…”

“It’s not even halfway in, you stupid bitch,” you snarled. You fucked forward again, a harder, deeper thrust. Her cunt was drenched now, a mix of her own reluctant arousal and the slick, stretching strain. The wet, squelching sound of your penetration filled the room. With a final, brutal push, you buried yourself to the hilt, your pelvis grinding against hers.

You were fully inside her. Her cunt was stretched obscenely wide around your girth, every ridge and vein of your cock mapped by her clenching, fluttering inner walls. You could feel the deep, inner knot of her cervix, a firm, rounded obstacle at the very end of her tunnel, nudged by the tip of your cock.

Winter was sobbing openly now, tears streaming down her temples into her hair. Her body was shaking, but her cunt… her cunt was a furnace of conflicting signals, clamping down on you in painful spasms one second, then gushing fresh wetness the next.

“Look at you,” you panted, beginning to move, pulling back until just the head remained inside her stretched ring, then slamming back in. “Taking a cock like a born whore. Is this what you wanted? All that attitude, just hiding a needy little fuckhole?”

“I hate you!” she screamed, but her hips gave a tiny, betraying jerk upwards to meet your next thrust.

“You love this,” you corrected, picking up the pace. Your balls slapped wetly against her ass with each drive. The bedframe started a rhythmic, protesting creak. You reached down and ripped the sports bra up over her breasts, exposing them. They were small, perfect handfuls with large, dark pink areolas and nipples that were tight, pointed pebbles. You pinched one, twisting it hard.

She cried out, a sharp “Ah!”, but her back arched, shoving her breast further into your hand.

“You like it rough,” you laughed, a harsh, breathless sound. “Of course you do. You’re just like your friend.” You glanced at Karina, who was huddled against the headboard, watching with huge, traumatized eyes, one hand clamped over her mouth. “Aren’t they the same, Karina? Both just sluts who need to be put in their place?”

You focused back on Winter, your thrusts becoming harder, deeper, more punishing. You were battering against her cervix now, the fat head of your cock punching into that firm, internal gate with every plunge. The pain-pleasure on her face was transcendent. Her screams had morphed into ragged, continuous moans, punctuated by sobs.

“Nnnngh! Oh god! Oh fuck! It’s—it’s too deep!”

“It’s not deep enough,” you grunted. You shifted your angle, pulling her hips up higher, and pistoned into her with focused, brutal precision. You aimed for that cervical barrier and smashed against it.

“AAAAHHHH! STOP! YOU’RE—YOU’RE IN MY—NNNGGHHH!” Her words disintegrated into a wordless, guttural shriek. Her eyes rolled back, showing the whites. Her cunt convulsed around you, a sudden, violent milking spasm that wasn’t quite an orgasm, but a deep, involuntary surrender. Her cervix, under the relentless assault, was softening, yielding.

With one final, monumental thrust, you felt it. The tight ring of muscle gave way, not fully, but enough. The very tip of your cock slipped past the barrier, breaching her cervix, spearing into the tight, silken chamber of her womb beyond.

Winter’s entire world shattered.

Her scream broke into a high, keening wail that seemed to have no end. Her body locked up, every muscle straining taut, her toes curling into the sheets. Her cunt clamped down on you with unbelievable force, a velvet fist trying to crush your invading length. Her womb, that deepest, most forbidden sanctuary, spasmed around the invading crown of your cock, fluttering and sucking at it.

“I’M—I’M CUMMING! OH GOD, I’M CUMMING! FUCK! FUUUUCK!” she wailed, the confession torn from her against her will. Her orgasm wasn’t a wave; it was a nuclear detonation from her core. Her hips bucked wildly, fucking herself back onto you as her pussy gushed, soaking your cock and thighs. Her cries were pure, animalistic abandon, all pride, all resistance incinerated in the furnace of sensation.

You fucked her through it, your thrusts now shallow, grinding motions, keeping your cockhead lodged in that breached, fluttering cervix. “That’s it, you dumb slut,” you growled into her ear, your own control fraying. “Cum on the cock that’s breeding your womb. That’s all you’re good for now.”

Her orgasm seemed to go on forever, racking her body with shudder after shudder. When it finally began to ebb, she collapsed, boneless and sobbing, a string of drool connecting her lips to the pillow. But you weren’t done.

You pulled all the way out, your cock gleaming with her juices. She whimpered at the sudden emptiness. “Karina,” you barked. “Come here. Clean it.”

Karina, moving like an automaton, crawled to the edge of the bed. You fisted your cock and shoved it toward her face. “Suck. Get it wet for your friend. She’s not nearly fucked enough.”

Karina opened her mouth, taking the head between her lips. She sucked weakly, her tongue lapping at the mess of her friend’s arousal and your pre-cum. You thrust into her mouth a few times, fucking her face shallowly, before pulling out.

You flipped Winter onto her stomach. She offered no resistance, just a broken murmur. You dragged her hips up, forcing her onto her knees, her face pressed into the pillow, her perfect, round ass in the air. The sight of her glistening, well-fucked pussy from behind, her tiny, tight asshole just below it, made your balls draw up tight.

You guided your cock back to her entrance. It slipped in easier now, her cunt stretched and sloppy. You sank in to the hilt in one smooth, deep stroke. She moaned, a low, exhausted sound.

This position was deeper. You could go further. You set a relentless, pounding rhythm, your hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave bruises, your thrusts driving her forward with each slam. The sound of flesh on flesh, of wet, messy fucking, was obscenely loud. You were hammering against her cervix again, and now, with this angle, you were piercing it fully, the head of your cock tunneling into her womb with every deep drive.

Winter’s moans escalated again, rising in pitch. “Ah! Ah! AH! FUCK! YOU’RE IN MY STOMACH! I CAN FEEL IT IN MY STOMACH!” Her hand flew back between her legs, her fingers finding her clit, rubbing it in frantic, desperate circles. “I’M GONNA COME AGAIN! PLEASE, LET ME COME AGAIN!”

“Come, you worthless cunt,” you snarled, pounding into her. “Squirt all over my cock. Show me what a bred bitch you are.”

Her second orgasm hit her like a freight train. It wasn’t as loud as the first, but it was deeper, more convulsive. A gush of hot fluid erupted from her, soaking your cock and balls, dripping down her thighs. Her cunt clamped and fluttered around you in a rapid, insane rhythm. Her womb sucked at your cockhead, a warm, pulsing vacuum.

It was too much. The feel of her destroyed, submitting cunt, the visual of Karina watching, the absolute power—it tore your own climax from you.

You buried yourself as deep as you could go, your pelvis grinding against her ass, and let go.

Your cock swelled, pulsed, and then erupted. Thick, hot ropes of cum shot directly into her womb, jet after jet flooding that deepest chamber. You grunted, animal sounds, as you emptied yourself into her, painting her insides white. You could feel it, the pulsing of your shaft, the rush of seed, the way her cervix fluttered and milked you for every drop.

“Fuck… yes… take it… breed that whore…” you groaned, riding out the last waves of your orgasm.

When it was over, you stayed inside her, panting, your cock still twitching, still semi-hard. Cum was already leaking out around the seal of your cock, a white, creamy trickle down her inner thigh.

Winter was completely broken beneath you, her body limp, her face wet with tears and drool, soft, post-orgasmic whimpers escaping her lips.

You finally pulled out with a wet, sucking pop. A flood of your cum followed, dripping from her gaping, used hole onto the sheets below. You turned to Karina, who was staring at the mess, her face pale.

The delicate lace cups of her bra were shoved roughly beneath the full, pale mounds of her breasts, exposing them completely to the cool, conditioned air. Her nipples were tight, drawn into hard, dusky pink pebbles.

“I said, look at me, you bitch.”

Your hand, rough and demanding, tangled in the perfumed silk of her hair. You wrenched her head up. Her neck strained, tendons standing in stark relief against her pale skin. Her eyelids fluttered, struggling to bring the world into focus. First, a blur of muted gold and grey. Then, the shape of you. Recognition came slowly, like molasses dripping through tar. Then confusion, a childlike bewilderment. Then, a dawning, gut-wrenching horror that cleared the haze for one crystalline second.

“Y-you…” she slurred, the word thick and clumsy on her tongue. “What… what did you do to me?”

You leaned in. Your breath was hot against the delicate shell of her ear. In the corner of the room, the small, discreet camera on its tripod watched with its unblinking red eye. It captured the tear tracks, the terror, the ruined blouse. “I gave you what you earned,” you whispered, the sound a low rasp. “A taste of your own perfect little medicine. But the main course is just being served.”

Her body trembled then, a full-body shudder that had nothing to do with the room’s chill. She tried to push at your chest, but her arms moved as if through deep water, slow and weak, her palms slapping against you with pathetic, muffled thuds. “Stop… please…”

“Please?” The laugh that barked out of you was hollow, ugly. “That’s a new fucking word for you. Didn’t hear it when you had your little pack of hyenas corner me in the third-floor bathroom. Didn’t hear it when you ‘accidentally’ poured that entire fucking strawberry milk down my shirt in the cafeteria. You just laughed. That perfect, tinkling little laugh that made everyone else laugh with you.” You released her hair, and her head dropped back to the leather with a soft, final thump. Your hands went to your belt buckle, the metal clicking loud in the silence. “You’re gonna make a whole new symphony of sounds for me tonight. And I’m gonna keep every fucking one.”

The memories flashed, hot and bright, behind your eyes as you worked the denim open—a montage of humiliations scored by the soundtrack of her giggles. The deliberate trip that sent your textbooks skittering across the polished hallway floor. The whispered campaigns, so expertly orchestrated, that left you eating lunch alone for weeks, the taste of food ash in your mouth. The cold, beautiful cruelty of it all, wrapped in a face and a body the world adored. And then she was just… gone. Off to trainee schedules, then debut, then stardom, leaving the wreckage of you behind like trash forgotten in a locker. The bitterness had festered, sweetened, and curdled into this perfect, dark idea.

Her schedule was public for a dedicated “fan.” The backstage pass was a forgery that cost two months’ rent. The distracted guard at the service entrance accepted an envelope of cash without a second glance. The drug was simple, a pharmaceutical-grade tranquilizer, colorless and tasteless, stirred into the bottle of vitamin water her harried manager left on the dressing table. She’d drunk it down, complaining of a headache, wanting to be sharp for the cameras. You’d watched from the shadowed service alcove, heart a frantic drum against your ribs, as the lethargy first softened her movements, then glued her to the chair. When her manager’s phone rang and she stepped into the hall, you moved.

Now, you shoved your jeans and boxers down your hips. Your cock, thick and heavy and already fully erect, sprang free. It was a part of yourself you’d always felt awkward about, too much, too obvious. But seeing her glassy eyes widen at the sight of it, seeing the drugged fear twist her pretty features, it transformed. It was power made flesh. Long, veined with throbbing blue lines, the shaft a fierce red and the head a swollen, flushed purple. A single bead of clear precum welled at the slit, gleaming under the studio lights.

“See this?” you growled, wrapping your fist around your own girth, giving it a rough, possessive stroke. The skin was hot and silky under your palm. “This is what you paid for. With every smirk. With every whispered joke. You’re gonna take every fucking inch of it. You understand me? And you’re gonna thank me for it before I’m done.”

“No…” The whimper was barely audible, a broken exhale. She tried to curl in on herself, to become smaller, but her legs only shifted weakly on the couch leather. “Don’t… it won’t… it’s too…”

“It’s too what, Wonyoung? Too big for a precious little idol’s pristine cunt?” You climbed onto the couch, your knees sinking into the cushion on either side of her hips, pinning her in place with your weight. The air left her lungs in a soft, choked gasp. “You think you’re special? You’re a hole. My hole. For tonight.”

You didn’t wait. Preparation was for lovers. You grabbed the hem of her short, pleated skirt and yanked it up around her waist, bunching the fabric. Beneath was a scrap of sheer, white lace panties. You hooked your fingers in the side and pulled, not with care, but with a brutal, lateral jerk. The fragile material gave way with a sharp rrrip. She was exposed. Completely bare, shaved smooth, her pussy a neat, pink slit nestled between the soft pale mounds of her thighs. It was already glistening, a betraying slickness coating her inner lips. The scent hit you—expensive soap, the ghost of her perfume, and underneath, the muskier, undeniable, pungent smell of female arousal. Even terrified, even drugged and crying, her body was a traitor.

“Look at that,” you sneered, dragging a rough finger through her folds. They parted with a wet, sticky shlllck. “You’re fucking dripping. Is this your thing? You get off on this? On knowing someone’s gonna force their way into you? You’re a sick, twisted little slut, aren’t you?”

“I’m n-not…” she sobbed, the tears finally coming in earnest, carving clean rivers through the black smudges on her face.

You smeared her own wetness over the small, hard nub of her clit, rubbing in a rough, circular motion. Her back arched off the couch involuntarily, a sharp, broken gasp tearing from her throat. “Ah!”

“Deny it,” you commanded, your voice dropping to a whisper. “I want to hear you lie to my face.”

You positioned yourself, the broad, swollen head of your cock nudging against her entrance. It was hot there, impossibly so, and so fucking tight you couldn’t imagine it yielding. You pushed, just the initial, blunt pressure.

Her whole body went rigid as a board. A guttural, strained sound forced its way through her clenched teeth. “Nnnngh!”

“Open your eyes!” you snarled, slapping your palm down on the leather by her head. The sharp crack made her flinch, her eyelids flying open, wide and white-rimmed with panic. “You watch this. You watch me ruin you.”

You pushed harder. The resistance was intense, her virgin-tight cunt clamping down in a vice-like spasm, refusing the invasion. You leaned your weight into it, a slow, inexorable pressure that made the tendons in your thighs stand out. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, then a ragged, tearing wail broke free, raw and shredded.

“HhhhaaaAAAHHHHH—no, no, stop, it won’t fit, please, it hurts, it HURTS!”

Her legs kicked, her heels scrambling for purchase on the smooth leather, finding none. You grabbed her hips, your fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave ten perfect, purpling bruises, and you shoved.

The thick, flared head of your cock popped past the tight, clutching ring of her entrance, and she screamed. A raw, animal sound that held no trace of the idol, just pure, unfiltered agony and violation. “FUUUCCK—AAAGGHHH!”

You froze, buried just that first brutal inch inside her. Her inner walls fluttered and spasmed wildly around the invading girth, a hot, wet, living fist trying to crush you. It was obscenely tight. Unbelievably hot. You looked down at where you were joined. Your thick, reddened shaft was stretching her open, her delicate pink lips strained pale around the base. A mix of her slick and a faint, coppery hint of blood smeared your skin.

“God… you’re tight,” you groaned, the pleasure so intense it was a sharp, bright pain in your gut. You dropped your head, panting. “You feel that? That’s me. Inside you. And I’m not even close to halfway.”

You began to move, a shallow, brutal rocking of your hips. Each tiny, grinding thrust forced another choked sound from her throat—a half-sob, half-groan. Her tears flowed freely now, her face a ruined masterpiece of smeared makeup and utter, broken despair.

“You like that?” you taunted, your voice rough. “You like feeling how big I am? Stretching your pretty little idol cunt open for me? I can feel you squeezing me, you greedy bitch. Your body wants it even if your mouth is saying no.”

“I d-don’t… ah! Ah! …please…”

You pulled back almost all the way, watching her stretched entrance cling to your shaft for a wet moment, then slammed forward, burying another impossible inch. Her scream cracked, pitching higher into a shriek. “OH GOD! TOO DEEP! YOU’RE TOO DEEP!”

You did it again. And again. Each thrust was a punishment, a reclamation. The wet, fleshy sound of your hips meeting hers, the sharp smack of skin on skin, filled the room alongside her broken cries. You fucked her like that, with short, piston-like jabs, stretching her a fraction more with each one, until, with one final, grinding, merciless push, you were fully sheathed inside her. Your balls rested tight against the curve of her ass. You were buried to the hilt. She felt impossibly full, stretched to a burning, tearing limit around your entire length. Her stomach, you noted with a dark thrill, had a slight, subtle bulge just above her pubic bone.

You stayed there, throbbing inside her, letting her feel the complete, total invasion. Her chest heaved. Snot mixed with tears on her upper lip. She was muttering incoherently, a stream of “nonononono…” that had lost all meaning.

“Now,” you said, your voice eerily calm. “We really begin.”

You started to fuck her in earnest. No rhythm, no grace. Just raw, driving power. You pulled almost all the way out, watching her stretched, glistening opening cling to your shaft, then powered back in, balls-deep. The force of it jolted her whole body up the couch. Her exposed tits bounced and jiggled with each impact. The sounds were obscene—the wet squelch of your cock plunging into her soaked cunt, the thwap of your thighs slapping against hers, her ragged, screaming exhalations with every drive inward. “Uhn! Uhn! Uhn!”

“You’re raping me!” she shrieked, her hands finally finding some strength to claw weakly at your forearms. “You’re raping my cunt! Get out! Get it out!”

“I am raping you,” you grunted, fucking her harder, your abdominal muscles tightening like cords with the effort. “And your cunt is loving it. It’s sucking me in. Listen to it.” You paused for a second, the only sounds her ragged weeping and the slick, sticky noise of your connection. A thick, wet gshhhllk as you shifted inside her. “It’s begging for more. Tell me you don’t want it. Tell me you’re not the wettest, most willing little rape-slut I’ve ever had.”

She couldn’t answer. A different kind of tension was coiling in her, a treacherous heat that cut through the drug fog and the searing pain. Her hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk upwards, meeting one of your downstrokes. A broken, shameful moan tore from her lips, low and guttural. “Nnnngh…!”

You saw it. The crack in her resistance. The ultimate betrayal of her own body.

“There it is,” you hissed, a vicious triumph surging through your veins. You changed your angle, leaning over her, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand. Your other hand went to her throat. Not squeezing to cut off air, but applying a dominant, claiming pressure to the sides, your thumb pressing into the hollow of her throat. It made her eyes bulge with a fresh wave of fear—and something else, a submissive, terrifying thrill you could see flickering in the depths. You fucked her deeper like this, your pelvis grinding against her swollen clit with every brutal, bottoming-out plunge.

“You’re gonna come,” you told her, your face inches from hers. You could smell the salt of her tears, the acrid tang of her fear, the cloying sweetness of her perfume. “You’re gonna come on the cock of the man you ruined. And I’m gonna watch your fucking mind break when you do.”

“I won’t… I c-can’t…” she sobbed, but her body was tightening around you, her inner muscles fluttering in frantic, rippling waves that felt like a hot, wet mouth trying to milk you dry.

“You will. Because I say so.” You released her throat and slid your hand between your pounding bodies, your thumb finding her swollen, slippery clit, now protruding and hard as a pebble. You pressed down, hard, and began rubbing in tight, furious, clockwise circles.

Her back arched off the couch violently, her spine bowing like a drawn bow. Her mouth opened in a silent, stunned ‘O’. A guttural, trembling noise started deep in her chest, a building earthquake, and then it erupted. “NnnnnnGGGGKKKHHHHhhhh—!”

It wasn’t a scream of pain. It was a roar of pleasure so intense it bordered on agony. Her cunt convulsed around your cock, a series of brutal, milking spasms that clamped down so tight it stole your breath. Her eyes rolled back, showing the whites. Her entire body seized, trembling uncontrollably. A hot, gushing torrent of fluid erupted from her, not just a trickle, but a splash that soaked your cock, your balls, the leather couch beneath her with a sound like a sighing hissss. It wasn’t just come—it was a squirting orgasm, forced from her by the overwhelming stimulation and psychological surrender.

You didn’t stop. You kept fucking her through it, your thumb still torturing her hypersensitive clit, your cock pistoning into her sopping, clenching hole.

“AAAAHHHH! TOO MUCH! TOO MUCH! STOP, IT HURTS, PLEASE, I CAN’T!” she screamed, her voice hoarse and shredded. The pleasure had tipped into searing, electric overstimulation, a pain-pleasure feedback loop that had her thrashing beneath you, trying to escape the very sensations she’d just climaxed from. Her cries were pure, fragmented panic. “Hahhh—hahhh—no more, no more, no more—ahhhAHHHAHH!”

You laughed, a dark, breathless sound. “We’re not done. We’re just getting started. You have a lot more to pay for.”

You slowed your thrusts, but they were deeper, more grinding, making sure your huge cock dragged against every raw, sensitive nerve inside her, rubbing over a deep, spongy spot that made her jolt with each pass. You leaned down, capturing her mouth in a rough, biting kiss. She tried to turn her head, but you held her still, licking the salt of her tears from her lips before forcing your tongue inside. She whimpered into your mouth, a broken, defeated sound, her own tongue lying limp as you dominated the wet cavity.

When you broke the kiss, you were both panting, strings of saliva connecting your mouths. Her gaze was glassy, distant. The mind break was happening. The proud, cruel idol was shattering, replaced by a used, overstimulated vessel for your revenge. A doll with its strings cut, her body still twitching with the aftershocks of a forced orgasm.

“Good,” you murmured, your hips never stopping their relentless, deep pace. “Now, let’s try the other hole.”

Her eyes, which had begun to drift shut in exhausted overload, snapped open. A new, deeper terror flooded them, cutting through the post-orgasmic haze. “N-no…” It was a whimper, a last vestige of her old self. “Not there…”

“Yes there,” you growled, pulling your slick, glistening cock from her well-used pussy with a wet, sucking pop. The sight of her stretched, gaping entrance, pink and puffy and dripping with her juices and yours, sent a fresh jolt of lust through you. You shifted back, kneeling between her legs. You hooked your hands under her knees and shoved them up towards her shoulders, folding her nearly in half, exposing her completely. Her asshole, a tight, dark pink pucker nestled between the firm, round globes of her ass, winced under the sudden exposure.

“Please,” she begged, fresh tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. “It won’t… you can’t… it’s too big…”

“It’ll fit,” you said, your voice low and certain. You spat into your palm, a crude, thick glob of saliva, and rubbed it over the head of your cock, mixing it with the copious wetness already there. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. You reached down, dragging two fingers through the dripping mess between her legs, gathering a slippery mix of her squirt and her natural lubricant. You smeared it roughly over her tight back entrance. “Because I’m gonna make it fit.”

You positioned the blunt, slick head of your cock against that clenched, resistant star. You applied pressure. It didn’t give. You pushed harder, leaning your weight into it. Her whole body went taut, a silent scream on her face.

“Relax, you stupid bitch, or I’ll tear you open,” you snarled, your patience fraying.

She sobbed, a hopeless, broken sound, but some of the tension leaked from her body, a final surrender. You shoved.

The head of your cock breached her, popping past the tight outer ring of muscle with a sickening, wet pop. Her scream was different this time—higher, sharper, a sound of pure, unadulterated violation. “HHHYYYAAAAAGGGHHHH!”

You didn’t pause. You couldn’t. The heat was insane, a tight, fiery grip that made her pussy feel roomy by comparison. You pushed another inch, feeling her inner muscles clench and spasm in frantic, useless resistance. You leaned over her, bringing your face close to hers again. You hooked the fingers of one hand into the corners of her mouth, stretching it into a grotesque, crying clown’s grin.

“Look at me,” you commanded, your voice a harsh whisper. “You look at me while I wreck this ass. You watch what you made me do.”

You pulled your hips back slightly, then slammed forward, burying another thick inch into her impossibly tight channel. The sound she made was a choked, gurgling shriek around your hooked fingers. You fucked her ass like that, with short, brutal jabs, using the grip on her mouth as leverage to drive deeper. Each thrust was a battle, her body fighting the invasion every millimeter of the way. The stretch was obscene, painful, glorious. You could see the strain in her face, the way her eyes threatened to roll back, the cords standing out in her neck.

“Fuck… your ass is even tighter than your cunt,” you grunted, sweat dripping from your brow onto her chest. “Like a fucking vice. Taking my cock like a good little anal slut. Aren’t you?”

She couldn’t speak. She could only make ragged, sobbing sounds around your fingers, her body trembling violently with each penetration.

You established a rhythm, a cruel, pounding pace that rocked her folded body back and forth on the couch. The slap of your flesh against hers was sharper now, drier. The sounds from her ass were wetter, tighter, a desperate shhhllk-shhhllk-shhhllk with each withdrawal and thrust. You felt a different kind of pressure building inside you, a coiling, urgent need. You fucked her harder, deeper, your balls slapping against her soaked, swollen pussy lips with each drive.

“You feel that?” you panted, your own breath coming in ragged gasps now. “You feel me in your guts? I’m so deep in your ass I can feel my own cock through your stomach.” You looked down at her lower belly, seeing the subtle, moving bulge with each of your thrusts. “Look at it. Look at what I’m doing to you.”

Her eyes, glazed and unfocused, drifted down. The sight of the movement under her own skin, the visible proof of your deep invasion, seemed to break something else inside her. A fresh flood of tears, silent this time, streamed down her temples into her hair.

The pressure in your balls tightened, a fierce, burning knot. “You’re gonna take my cum, you understand? I’m gonna fill this tight little ass up until it’s dripping out of you. You’re gonna wear it for days.”

You hooked your fingers deeper in her mouth, pulling her head up slightly as you fucked into her with a final, desperate frenzy. Your rhythm lost all finesse, becoming a frantic, slamming chase for your own release. The heat, the tightness, the sheer, degrading wrongness of it all sent you over the edge.

“FUCK!” you roared, your body locking up as you slammed home one last time, burying yourself to the hilt in her clenching, protesting asshole.

The orgasm ripped through you, violent and consuming. Thick, hot pulses of cum shot deep into her bowels, jet after jet after jet, flooding her. You ground your hips against her, milking every last drop into her depths, feeling her inner muscles fluttering weakly around your shaft as you pumped her full. Your vision swam, your ears roaring with the force of it.

Slowly, the world came back. The sound of your own ragged breathing. The smell of sex and sweat and leather. The feel of her trembling, devastated body beneath you. You pulled your fingers from her mouth, letting her head drop. You stayed buried inside her for a long moment, feeling your cock begin to soften within her incredible tightness.

With a wet, slick sound, you pulled out.

The sight was obscene. Her asshole, stretched wide and puffy, glistened with a mix of your saliva, her lubricant, and now, a thick, pearly white trickle of your cum that began to seep out almost immediately, oozing down onto the dark leather of the couch. Her pussy below was a swollen, well-used mess, glistening and gaping slightly.

You looked down at her face. Her eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. The tears had stopped. Her expression was blank, utterly empty. The mind break was complete. The Wonyoung who had laughed as she ruined your life was gone. In her place was this: a used, broken thing, filled with your cum, leaking it onto a couch in a room where she was supposed to be a star.

You leaned close, your lips almost brushing her ear. Your voice was soft, almost gentle.

Finally, you turned. Your grin was wide, effortless. “Jenkins loved it. She was just hiding her smile behind that grimace. You know, the one that looks like she’s chewing on a lemon?”

“She was contemplating retirement. Or homicide.” Kazuha folded her arms, leaning back. The midday sun through the high windows caught the obsidian black of her hair, the sharp line of her jaw. She looked every bit the icy, unapproachable art student she pretended to be. “Your existence is a public nuisance.”

“And yours is a public service? Cooling the global temperatures with that personality?” You leaned forward, elbows on the table. Your basketball jersey stretched across your shoulders. “You’re a glacier, Nakamura. Beautiful to look at from a distance, deadly if you get too close.”

A flicker, just a flicker, in her dark eyes. Something that wasn’t annoyance. Something warmer, tighter. It vanished instantly, replaced by a scowl. “Don’t call me beautiful. It’s pathetic. Like a puppy trying to lick a snake.”

“You’re not a snake. You’re more like a… really pissed-off cat. All claws and no purr.”

“I’d scratch your eyes out.”

“You’d miss. You’d get all emotional and your aim would suck.”

The bickering was a dance. A familiar, furious, exhilarating dance. To anyone watching—and a few people were, from the safety of their own tables—it was just the daily spectacle. The Golden Boy vs. The Ice Queen. Captain of the Titans versus the solitary painter who haunted the east wing studios. Oil and water. Fire and frost.

They didn’t see the note.

It was there, now, under your palm as you rested your hand casually on the table. A small, folded square of paper, torn from a sketchpad edge. You slid it forward, an inch, under the guise of adjusting your position.

Kazuha’s eyes dropped. Her gaze didn’t change, but her fingers, resting on her own crossed arms, twitched.

“So,” you said, voice loud enough for the nearby group to hear, “you’re coming to the pep rally Friday? To witness my glorious victory speech? I hear they’re giving me a mic.”

“I’d sooner listen to a car alarm for three hours.” She uncrossed her arms, placing one hand on the table. Her fingertips brushed the edge of the hidden paper. “Your ‘glory’ is as shallow as the puddle you probably think is a swimming pool.”

“Deep enough to drown in, though.” You smirked. “You should try it. Might loosen you up.”

Her hand closed over the note, scooping it up with a motion so smooth it looked like she was just wiping a crumb away. She stood, chair scraping. “I’m already loose enough to tie you into a knot, idiot. Try not to embarrass the entire school species on Friday.”

She turned and walked away, her stride quick and purposeful, the note disappearing into the pocket of her dark jeans.

You watched her go, the smirk softening into something else. Something private. Something that made your chest feel tight and warm.

No one knows.

That was the rule. The first rule, the only rule that mattered.

Because on paper, you two didn’t mix. You were the sun; she was the deep, cold shadow. Your worlds were circles that only touched at a single, hidden, volatile point.

The bell rang, a harsh electronic buzz that shattered the cafeteria murmur. You got up, heading for the west wing and your calculus class. She was going east, to her studio.

But for a moment, in the crowded hallway flow of bodies and noise, your paths intersected.

You were moving with your team, a bunch of loud, laughing guys shoving each other playfully. She was alone, a silent figure cutting through the current like a blade.

Your shoulder brushed hers. Not an accident. A calculated, tiny collision in the chaos.

“Watch it, Nakamura,” you said, loud enough for your friends to hear. “You’ll knock someone over with that attitude.”

She spun, eyes flashing. “You’re a traffic hazard, Tanaka. A bloated, noisy obstacle.”

One of your teammates, Mike, chuckled. “Damn, Kaz. Cold as ever.”

She ignored him, staring only at you. For a second, just a breath, her gaze dropped to your lips. Then it snapped back up, hardened. “Try to stay in your lane,” she said, and pushed past.

You felt it. The charge. The silent, screaming current that ran between you in public spaces. It was all hostility, all sharp edges. And beneath it, a thrumming, desperate need to touch, to talk, to be.

You let your friends pull you away, laughing along with their jokes about her “perma-frost” demeanor.

In your calculus class, you opened your notebook. There, tucked between pages of equations, was her reply.

The paper was the same, but now it bore her quick, elegant script in black ink.

Empty bathroom. West wing, second floor. 3:05. Don’t be late. Don’t be stupid.

A smile, real and unfiltered, touched your lips. You folded the note back, hiding it.

3:05.

You watched the clock.

The west wing second-floor bathroom was a relic. Less used because it was far from most classrooms, with peeling paint and a flickering light. You pushed the door open at 3:04, the final bell for afternoon sessions just fading.

She was there.

Not waiting nervously. She was leaning against the far sink, arms crossed again, but her posture was different. The defensive public armor was gone. Her shoulders were softer. Her eyes, when they met yours, held a heat that would have melted anyone who saw it.

“You are stupid,” she said, but her voice was low, a husky murmur that filled the small, tiled space. “Coming here. Risking it.”

“You asked,” you said, closing the door behind you. The lock clicked, a tiny, definitive sound. “I’m not stupid. I’m obedient.”

A faint, almost invisible smile touched her lips. “You’re a dog. A very, very dumb dog.”

You stepped toward her. The room was silent except for the drip of a leaky faucet and the distant hum of the school’s HVAC system. “And you’re the owner who keeps throwing the ball, even though you swear you hate the game.”

She unfolded her arms. “I don’t hate the game.” Her hand reached out, fingers brushing the hem of your jersey. “I hate the field. The spectators. The… the fucking scoreboard.”

Her touch was electric. A simple contact on the fabric, but it felt like a brand on your skin. “There’s no scoreboard here,” you said, moving closer. Your body was inches from hers now. You could smell her—the faint scent of acrylic paint and charcoal, and underneath, something clean and uniquely her. “Just us.”

“Just us,” she repeated, and her voice wavered. The insecurity she hid from the world, the deep, gnawing doubt that this was all a mistake, surfaced in that tiny crack. “It feels like a lie sometimes. Like we’re building this on a cliff.”

“It’s not a lie.” Your hand came up, cupping her cheek. Her skin was warm, smooth. She leaned into the touch, her eyes closing for a second. “It’s the only real thing in this whole damn place.”

Her eyes opened. They were dark, deep pools of conflicted emotion. “They’d never understand. Your friends… my friends… anyone. They’d think it’s a joke. Or a betrayal. You betraying your… your golden crown. Me betraying my… my solitude.”

“I don’t care about a crown.” Your thumb traced the line of her jaw. “And your solitude is a castle I’m trying to storm.”

That made her smile properly, a small, genuine curve of her lips. “You’re already inside the walls, idiot. You’ve been inside for months.”

“Then stop pretending I’m the enemy at the gate.”

She breathed out, a slow, shaky sigh. “I have to. Outside. I have to. If I look at you the way I want to look at you… if I smile at your stupid jokes… they’ll know. They’ll see it. And then it’s gone. This… this secret room. It gets invaded.”

You understood. You felt the same pressure, the same absurd social gravity. Being with her meant defying the entire ecosystem of high school. It meant choosing a hidden, fragile truth over the easy, public lie.

“So we keep the door locked,” you whispered.

Her gaze dropped to your lips again. This time, she didn’t snap it away. She let it linger, hungry and open. “For a few minutes at a time.”

“Then we should use the minutes.”

You didn’t wait for her to nod. You knew she wanted it. The tension of the day, the barbs traded in the cafeteria, the brush in the hallway—it all coiled into this moment, this need.

You leaned in.

Your mouth met hers.

The first touch was gentle, a testing of the waters. Her lips were soft, slightly chapped from a nervous habit she had of biting them. She responded instantly, a quiet, surrendering murmur escaping her as she pressed back.

Then it changed.

It deepened.

Your hand slid from her cheek to the back of her neck, fingers tangling in the silken strands of her hair. Her arms came up, wrapping around your shoulders, pulling you closer until your body was flush against hers. The sink edge pressed into her back, but she didn’t seem to notice.

The kiss became hungry.

Your tongue sought entrance, a slow, asking sweep across her lower lip. She gasped, a tiny, sharp intake of breath, and her mouth opened. You slipped inside.

The taste of her was familiar now—a hint of the mint tea she drank, the underlying warmth of her. Her tongue met yours, not fighting for dominance, but joining in a slow, passionate dance. It was an exploration, a re-mapping of a territory you both knew but craved to know again.

Your bodies moved together. You were standing, but she shifted, her hips pressing against yours. The friction, even through layers of clothes, was intense. You could feel the heat of her, the shape of her against your growing hardness.

One of your hands drifted down, sliding over the curve of her hip, gripping the denim of her jeans. She moaned into your mouth, the sound swallowed by the kiss. Her own hands were restless, one clutching at your jersey, the other tracing the line of your spine.

You broke the kiss for air, both of you panting softly in the quiet room. Your faces were close, lips glistening.

“We can’t…” she started, but her eyes were pleading, contradicting the words.

“We can’t stay long,” you agreed, voice rough. “But we can do this.”

She nodded, a quick, desperate motion. “Just this. For now.”

You kissed her again, this time harder, more urgent. Your teeth grazed her lip, and she shuddered. Your hand on her hip pulled her more firmly against you, and she ground herself into the pressure, a slow, deliberate rock of her pelvis that made your breath catch.

The world outside—the school, the rules, the expectations—melted into a distant, irrelevant buzz. Here, in this crumbling bathroom with a dripping faucet, there was only this: the slide of tongues, the shared, heated breath, the desperate clutch of hands, the building, aching friction between bodies that wanted so much more.

You wanted to lift her, to put her on the sink, to push her jeans down and explore every part of her with your mouth and hands. You wanted to hear her moan without restraint, to see her face lose all its guarded control and shatter into pleasure. You wanted to be inside her, to feel that tight, wet heat clasp around you, to move until neither of you could think.

But the clock was ticking. The “few minutes” were evaporating.

You slowed the kiss, gentling it, pulling back with a reluctance that felt physical.

She looked at you, her eyes wide, her lips swollen and dark from the attention. She was flushed, beautiful in her disarray. The Ice Queen was gone. Here was Kazuha, warm and possessive and yours.

“Friday,” she whispered. “After your speech. The pep rally will be loud. Everyone will be distracted.”

You understood the implication. The promise. “Your studio?”

She shook her head. “Too risky. My roommate might be around. The… the old gym storage room. Behind the bleachers. It’s locked, but I know where the custodian hides the spare key.”

A thrill, sharp and anticipatory, shot through you. “A storage room?”

“It’s private. And it has a couch. A very old, ugly couch.” Her smile was wicked now, a glimpse of the girl who plotted this secret life with you. “We can… use the time. Properly.”

Properly. The word hung between you, loaded with all the unspoken acts, the intense positions, the complicated bends, the speed and the loud moans you both craved and saved for these stolen weekends. The “hardcore” that was your private language.

“I’ll be there,” you said, your voice firm.

“You’ll be brilliant at the pep rally,” she said, and her tone shifted, back to the familiar sarcasm, but with a new, intimate layer. “And I’ll be in the crowd, looking like I wish you’d trip and fall off the stage.”

“And then you’ll meet me behind the bleachers and kiss me like you’re trying to forget your own name.”

She leaned forward, giving you one last, quick, biting kiss. “Maybe. If you’re not too sweaty from your ‘glorious victory.’”

You laughed, a real, unfettered sound that echoed in the small room. “I’ll shower. For you.”

“You should.” She stepped back, smoothing her hair, adjusting her clothes. The transformation back to the public Kazuha was startling. The warmth receded, replaced by the cool, distant mask. “Now get out. I have to be in studio in five minutes, and I don’t want your scent lingering on me.”

You opened the door, checking the hallway. It was empty. You slipped out, giving her one last look over your shoulder.

She was already at the mirror, wiping a smudge of your lip from her mouth with a detached efficiency. But her eyes caught yours in the reflection, and for a split second, the mask fell. She smiled. A small, private, tender smile.

Then she turned away, and you walked down the hall, back to your world.

*

The rest of the day was a blur of noise and motion. Practice was intense, your coach riding the team hard for the upcoming game. You threw yourself into it, the physical exertion a welcome burn that matched the simmering energy inside you.

Mike clapped you on the back after a good play. “Nice one, captain! You’re on fire today.”

“Just focused,” you said, shrugging.

“On kicking ass,” he laughed.

You nodded, but your focus was elsewhere. On a note in your pocket. On a time, a place, a promise. On the girl who despised you in the light and adored you in the shadows.

After practice, you showered in the team locker room, the steam and the chatter of your teammates a blanket of normalcy you had to wear. You dressed, slung your bag over your shoulder, and headed out.

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the campus. You saw her, across the quad. She was sitting on a bench near the art building, a sketchbook open in her lap. She wasn’t drawing. She was staring into the distance, her profile sharp and thoughtful.

You didn’t approach. You couldn’t.

But you walked a path that brought you near her bench. As you passed, you slowed, just for a step.

Your eyes met.

She didn’t smile. She didn’t frown. She just looked at you, a long, steady gaze that held everything you’d shared in the bathroom and everything you planned for Friday. It was a look of possession, of secret knowledge, of simmering impatience.

Then she lowered her eyes back to her sketchbook, as if you were a stranger who’d momentarily distracted her.

You kept walking, your heart pounding a rhythm that felt both dangerous and glorious.

No one knows.

And for now, that was enough. It was the fuel. The spark. The thing that made every public insult a private joke, every cold glance a hidden wink, every day a countdown to the moment when the door would lock again, and the world would shrink to just the two of you, and the silence would be filled with everything you couldn’t say outside.

Friday. The storage room. The old couch.

You could already imagine it. Her beneath you, her hands gripping your shoulders, her lips parted in a gasp. The feel of her, the taste of her, the sounds she’d make when you finally, properly, let the tension break.