~Wish I Could Pack You~

he looks exhausted when he comes off the pitch. he always does, but today he looks especially so. you wonder for a moment if he’s even going to stop to see you as he always does, or if he’ll head straight to the showers; certainly he looks like his legs are ready to give out. you’re tucked into your usual spot, in a corner between the tunnel and the showers, not quite out of the view of everyone else but not quite in it either. it’s a nice little spot, private enough for you to have a moment together, an embrace, to congratulate or commiserate, without going too far out of the way. he can stop, kiss you, then head to the showers.

he pulls you into his chest without a word, without a sound; there’s no greeting as there usually is, no kiss, just one arm around your waist and his other hand on the back of your neck pulling you towards him. his shirt is damp, soaked in sweat, unsurprising after playing the whole 90 minutes plus however much extra time there was, but you hardly notice. to you, he just smells like him, and the soaked polyester rubbing against your face, probably messing up some of your makeup from how tight he’s holding you, doesn’t even register.

“kid from the other team wants my shirt,” he says. his voice is low, hoarse, but decently cheerful, the usual condition after a match like this—not a win but a draw hard fought, no major missteps or feeling that he could have done more. he’s not wholly satisfied, never is, but he’s not angry and upset like he is when they lose or when he feels he’s fallen short. “i’ll go give it to him then shower. you gonna wait here?”

“always,” you murmur. the words are muffled by his chest slightly, but he hears them. his heartbeat is staring to slow down now, not racing as it was when he first pulled you into him, but you know it won’t be fully settled—he won’t be fully settled—until you get him home.

that’s one thing about your boyfriend—he has adrenaline in spades. it’s rare for it to be used up by the end of a match.

he looks calmer when he comes back, changed into comfier clothes and letting his hair dry in the summer heat. this time, when he pulls you into him, he’s slower, more careful, a gentle hand around your waist, a long, indulgent look up and down your body before nudging you towards him. he leans down, pressing his lips into yours, and the kiss is warm and intentional; savouring. “tastes good,” he mumbles into your mouth. “what were you drinking?”

“cosmopolitan,” you whisper back. “a few.”

he clicks his tongue. “naughty girl,” he says, but he doesn’t mean it.

“mm, punish me then.”

he chuckles, almost too quiet to hear, and his arm tightens around your waist slightly, the other coming to cup the back of your head. “nah,” he says. “not in that sort of mood. y’been good, i think.”

“have i?”

“i can always tell when you’ve been bad,” he says. “cause you stare at me like you’ve never done anything wrong in your life.”

“which i haven’t.”

“i’m sure. c’mon.”

he leads you out the back and to the car by the hand; his grip is firm, bordering on iron as though he’s worried you’ll try to slip away, but you both know you won’t. you just like it when he leads you, when he pulls you along like he’s the only one who knows where you’re going and your job is to simply follow. in the car he’s on his phone for the most part, a hand on your thigh, massaging your bare skin absentmindedly while he answers his messages. some of the other players, you see when you take a peek, and one from his manager. when you lean in a little too far, a little too obviously, he turns to you with a raised eyebrow and swats your thigh. you yelp, grinning, and he lands another smack on the other. “nosy,” he chides. “totally mannerless.”

“i don’t know what you’re talking about,” you giggle.

“you never do, do you?”

“isn’t that your job?”

he smiles a little, and for a moment you think his eyes flash. you swallow a laugh. too easy. “yeah,” he says. “s’my job. you’re too pretty to think.”

by the time he gets you into the apartment, you think you might be more hopped up than he is. you don’t know why; maybe the way he was touching your absentmindedly in the car, his hand creeping up the inside of your thigh; how he smacked you quickly, efficiently, as though it was nothing; how he spoke to you in that low, soft, condescending tone he only ever uses on you. he probably did it on purpose, you think as he unlocks the door and pulls you inside. got you all needy and desperate so you’ll be exactly as pliant as he likes you.

the moment the door is locked behind you you’re on him, pulling him into you by the neck and smashing your lips against his; he grunts, caught off guard for a moment, then melts into it, straightening up to lean over you properly and wrapping his arms around your torso. taking control. “bedroom,” he gruffs. “right now. not fucking you here.”

“carry me.”

“demanding,” he says, but he picks you up without protest, throwing you over his shoulder and landing one, two, three smacks to your ass. your skirt has ridden up enough that they land on your bare skin, making you shriek. “so dramatic,” he scoffs.

he throws you down onto the bed, and you don’t have a moment to adjust before he’s crawling on top of you and his hands are pressing down on your shoulders to pin you in place. “thought about you during the game,” he says; his lips are brushing across your collarbone, teeth catching now and then on the skin and making your breath hitch. “how you’d look underneath me, all pretty and desperate. you have no idea what you do to me.”

“neither do you,” you say. “you looked so good out there, y’know. all strong and manly and focused, so serious. so cocky. made me hot.”

his brow tilts, a small smile pulling at his lips. “you think i’m cocky?”

“sometimes,” you reply. “but you’ve earned it. and you fuck me better when you feel like you’re the shit.”

“lucky for you, i know i’m the shit.” he doesn’t take your skirt off, just pushes it up so it’s bunched around your hips then pulls your panties to the side. you’re already dripping; you can tell from the way the fabric clings to you as it’s pulled away and the way his expression hardens as he takes it is. “unbelievable,” he mutters. “little cockwhore.” he smacks his palm against it, large enough to hit your clit and your hole in one, then plunges two fingers inside. “you see how easy these go in?” he asks, pumping them in and out; he’s going slowly for now, but you know it won’t last long. “never have to work you open for them, she just lets me right in. like she knows who owns her.”

“you do,” you whisper.

you push your hips up instinctively, trying to pull him deeper, and he moves his other hand from your shoulder to push them down into the bed. “you stay there,” he says. “stay where i put you, good girl.”

“m’sorry,” you whine. “i just— it feels so good, baby, fuck.”

“i know it does, sweet girl.” he’s practically cooing now, pace quickening, tips of his fingers finding your g-spot every time. god, he really knows your body inside out. “you’re being so good taking it, my favourite girl. you’re gonna look so pretty crying on my cock.”

“please.” you’re trying to keep your legs apart, trying not to press your thighs together because you know that’ll only get you punished, but god, the thought of his dick, all thick and hard and leaking, pushing past your folds and into your cunt, is making your stomach twist. you need it so badly, fuck, you can’t take this anymore—

“easy.” he’s laughing quietly, grinning down at you, and you realise after a moment you’d been speaking out loud. how much you said you’re not sure, but certainly he heard the last of it. “don’t worry, baby, no need to beg. i’ll give it to you. i was gonna eat your pussy first but i think you’re too desperate, huh?”

“yeah,” you nod. “n- need—”

“alright, baby.” he pulls his fingers out, his skin glistening and dripping with your slick, then smacks your cunt again. he pulls his shorts and boxers down just far enough to pull out his dick—already rock hard, leaking from the tip, practically pulsing in his hand—then presses it to your pussy. the fingers that had been inside you find your clit, rubbing it in slow firm circles the way he knows drives you crazy, getting you wetter and opening you up enough for him to push inside. “that’s it,” he grunts, pressing himself inside you. “there’s a good girl, you open up for me, that’s right.”

he goes in slowly, carefully; he always does, even when you wish he wouldn’t. he’s just so big, he patiently explains every time you complain about it, and your cunt is so small and tight that he has to be careful not to hurt you. you suppose you understand, as much as you sometimes wish he’d just force himself inside without care.

he groans when he bottoms out, his hips now pressed against yours; he takes a moment to collect himself, exhaling, squeezing his eyes shut, then starts to move. slowly at first, then faster. he’s impatient, as needy as you are, you can tell by the way his thrusts so quickly get harder and faster and deeper. you think your skin will have bruises on it when he’s done by the way he’s gripping your hips, how sharp and loud and stingy the contact of his skin is against yours every time he fucks into you, but you don’t care. you love it, if anything; love carrying his marks on you.

“fuck,” he hisses, pressing down on your hips. “you’re so— jesus, so warm, baby, so wet. she’s clinging to me, fuck, you need it bad huh?”

“need it,” you repeat.

“good girl. put your legs up, come on.” he helps you lift your legs and plant them on his shoulders, wrapped around his neck; like this he can get deeper, more leverage with your hips raised from the bed and held at an angle. his hands are planted on your thighs, holding them in place, and his thrusts are getting stronger and more aggressive with each one. “gonna lose my mind,” he says. “fucking hell, you’re gonna drive me crazy, that what you want? tight fucking pussy.”

he reaches down to smack your ass, his hand landing firm against your cheek where it’s lifted slightly from the bed. “s-sorry!” you squeal, and he slaps you again.

“gonna make you sorry,” he grunts. “gonna fuck you til you’re screaming. gonna fuck you fucking stupid.”

he always does, you’d say if you could, but you’re pretty sure he already has; the words aren’t coming, aren’t forming the way they should, and all you can really do is moan and gasp and cry out his name like a prayer.

the thrusts are getting sloppier now, less precise but just as powerful, maybe more; his control is slipping, you feel it, his resolve starting to break. he’s nearing the edge; you push up into him slightly, just a little, and press your legs ever so slightly against his neck—almost choking, but not quite.

that’s all it takes. he shouts, eyes rolling back, then shoves himself all the way inside you, as deep as he can get, and stays there. his hips buck as he unloads into you, his grip on you bruising; when he’s done he rolls you onto your side to stop himself collapsing on top of you, instead falling beside you, dick still lodged inside, as he catches his breath.

“love you,” he breathes.

“love you too,” you say. “good game today.”

your heartbeats had a fondness for the romantic.

they began to skip, to multiply, to fill with a contentment as thick as honey and as warm as the sun. they did it all as your skin grew cold and while you stared at the ceiling and tried to ignore them.

you couldn’t fall in love with this man.

you would rather never fall in love at all than to experience it unrequited. you’d seen it enough times to despise the possibility.

you couldn’t love a man who treated you like a commodity, or even worse—a pretty bird in a cage.

those heartbeats tied into a knot, a strangling, uncomfortable ball in the back of your throat. you smelled like him. he was all over you, and you’d asked him nicely for it.

someone needed to save you from yourself before you got on your knees and professed your inevitable love to him. bitterness cut through your chest, and you moved to get up and leave but an iron grip wrapped around your wrist.

slowly, you glanced at michael who lay like a freshly fucked king next to you. you bet his heartbeats were satisfied that he’d finally laid you.

but as soon as you looked at him, the resentment faded into a different kind of ache. when had he become so handsome it hurt? you fought not to rub at the pang in your chest.

he didn’t say a word, just watched you with a lazy stare while inhaling rough breaths. it’d been only moments since the two of you had sex again. but in your head, it’d felt like an eternity as the seconds mocked you with the inevitable that he would soon hold another like he had you.

you were ruining a moment you’d wanted badly enough it felt like a need. but now you couldn’t stop yourself from analyzing everything—the possibilities and outcomes—and it didn’t look to be in your favor.

when the eye contact began to burn, you tried to pull your wrist away, but he wouldn’t let you go. his expression didn’t show a hint of emotion, as though he could hold you here effortlessly. as though he might hold you here forever.

a wave of tension brushed your back, evoking a prickling sensation that ran down your spine. the silence was an antagonistic one, the kind that doesn’t contain words but says everything.

you would never be with another man but the one in this room. you both knew it. he had the upper hand in every aspect of this relationship.

you could tell him everything. bare your soul and be honest. be an open person and hope that good would win.

but maybe you’d always been as manipulative as him.

maybe this was the only way you’d survive him.

a moment later, his grip slid from your wrist, releasing you. something dipped in your chest, though you pushed it away before you could analyze it.

without a second glance, you got off the bed and, as you took a step toward the door, you walked out of the room.

fuck.

michael’s chest tightened, each breath a burn in his lungs.

he stood, and before he even knew it was in his hand, he chucked a lamp at the wall. the porcelain shattered with a crash that would wake the entire fucking neighborhood. he took a deep breath and shook his head. you definitely heard that. you always did say he was a psychopath—might as well show you one.

his gaze paused on your clothes still lying on the floor. they sat there, probably smelling like you and shit. he picked them up and dropped them in the top dresser drawer. if you wanted them back you could fucking ask him nicely.

you were the best lay he’d ever had. a chill ran down his back from the thought of it. he gritted his teeth and tried to shake the strange feeling off.

nonetheless, his body was alive like you were still touching him—your little fingernails digging into his biceps, your hand wrapped around his cock, your smell all over him. so damn sweet. he braced his hands on the table near and hung his head.

you fucked with his head. and he had a bad, bad feeling that if you used the word please, he would give you anything you wanted.

he got dressed. he had to get out of this goddamned house before he did something stupid, like demand you forget every man you’d ever met but him.

the door was shut and the light was off as he passed your room. annoyance flared in him that you hadn’t even come out to see the damage.

birds chirped. sunlight streamed in pleasant rays through the window.

and it felt like you’d been ridden hard and put up wet. a twinge of soreness ached between your legs, and your skin felt tender, as though michael’s rough hands had rubbed you raw.

the reminder made you warm everywhere, though you knew it shouldn’t.

your feelings toward him were flighty and annoying to even yourself. you wanted a straight path to follow, with maturity and thoughtfulness, but you couldn’t seem to find that with him. he made you hot and then he made you cold. he was soft and then he was intense. he was rude and then he would do anything so he could have you.

you weren’t using your brain when you thought of him, but another organ entirely.

one with a pulse.

you’d fallen asleep to still smelling him on your skin, in your hair, everywhere, and contentment had filled your chest. though, there was a prickling sense of unease as well—at the crash that had come from the bedroom shortly after you left, and the animosity seeping under the door. the violence was a normal staple in your life, but it was the cause of it that worried you.

michael didn’t like to share—that much was obvious.

maybe you weren’t what he thought he wanted.

maybe he would let you go now that he’d gotten you in bed.

with a little pang in your chest, you pulled yourself out of bed and padded down the hall. you took a long, hot shower. your arms and legs were sore, and you hadn’t even done any of the work last night. you wondered if he still felt you somewhere. you wondered if he thought about you as much as you thought about him.

you hadn’t seen him after he left late the night before, and you weren’t sure he’d even come home. if he had, he’d already gone to training. you didn’t believe he was here; it was too quiet and neither did it smell like bacon.

you slipped out of the shower, dried off, and wrapped a towel around yourself. then, wandered into the kitchen, thirst pulling you from the comfort of your room. after filling a glass with water, you turned back toward the hallway.

you were almost at your door when you noticed the guest room wasn’t fully closed. just a narrow gap. it was enough to catch a glimpse of him.

michael was there.

he was awake, sitting on the side of the bed. his gaze touched your skin, but your eyes drifted from his. what if he saw everything you were thinking?

grabbing a hair tie from your wrist, you pulled your hair up and off your neck. “well, i hope when you get bored of me, you’ll give me a head start.”

he pushed himself off the bed and slipped a hand into his pocket, watching you. his gaze burned like a lit match, just as it had days ago when he’d said: there’s nowhere you could go that i couldn’t find you.

a shiver, equal parts hot and cold, ran down your back. it suddenly felt like you were in a twisted fairy-tale where the princess becomes infatuated with the evil king, and she chooses to stay in her tower even though the door is never locked.

you’d been right from the beginning. you’d never survive this man . . . but it was too late now. you would just have to enjoy your time while it lasted.

goosebumps trailed down your arms as you padded toward him on bare feet. it was too damn cold in this house, and michael was always as hot as a furnace. he could share some of his warmth.

“you’re not bored with me yet, are you?”

he ran a hand across his jaw. “i think you’ve got a few days, give or take.”

stepping into his space, you caught hold of his shirt. “only a few days?” you inhaled a deep breath of him. “i guess i better make them last then.”

rising to your tiptoes, you tried to kiss him, but he turned his head.

maybe you would’ve been dismayed by his reaction not long ago, but you knew him better now. it also helped that he had a hard-on you could feel against your stomach. so you ignored his rejection and pressed your lips to his jawline instead. he’d shaved this morning and the skin was smooth for a change. you kissed a line down his throat, growing dizzy from his taste and smell.

“i thought you changed your mind.” his voice came out rough, laced with anger, referring to the moment you’d climbed out of bed the night before.

“no.” you shook my head, running your tongue up his throat and your palm down to cup his erection. he pushed your hand away.

you rested your hand over his hard-on again, rubbing the entire length of him. he let you, but still wouldn’t touch you. you kissed your way up to the corner of his lips, and he finally turned his head and swallowed your sigh in his mouth. the kiss was wet and rough, maybe a little annoyed.

your tongue slid against his, and a flame pulsed to life in your lower belly.

he nipped your bottom lip. “you make me fucking crazy.”

“don’t blame me for your psychosis.”

“you are my psychosis.”

“rude,” you breathed against his lips.

he grabbed the back of your neck, and then kissed you deep and slow. he kissed you until your heartbeat throbbed between your legs.

a frenzy burned through your blood. you pressed your body to his, raked your nails down his stomach and tugged at his shorts. he made a rough sound in his throat, but his lips began to slow against yours. when you realized he was pulling away, you moaned in frustration.

“michael . . .”

his thumb brushed over your mouth. “surely a woman who walks out of my bed right after fucking her, doesn’t want me to fuck her again.”

“she does,” you protested.

whatever dignity you had left was long gone. didn’t he understand how much you wanted him? the words escaped you before you could stop them.

“i thought about you, you know . . .” your blush was so intense it burned in your chest and made your heart race.

his body stilled for a split second. “yeah?”

a tight sensation wrapped around your lungs—a mixture of fear, embarrassment, and vulnerability—but you needed him to know you wanted him.

the truth was, you needed him in a way you couldn’t even fathom, but you couldn’t let anyone know it was that severe, especially him. finding the courage somewhere deep inside of you, you rose to your toes and pressed your lips to his ear.

“i have touched myself thinking of you—slipped my fingers inside me and pretended they were yours.”

three heartbeats drummed in your ears.

“fuck me,” he groaned, before grabbing your hips, lifting you, and meeting your mouth with his. finally. your legs wrapped around his waist and your hands buried in his locks.

walking you backward toward the bed, michael kissed you like he was trying to eat you alive. he was such a selfish kisser. kissing you only when he wanted, biting you, controlling every dip, lick, and press of your lips.

he trailed his mouth down your neck, and you worked on his shirt. you wanted his skin against yours, something you’d only felt once, and something you ached for. it was impossible to remove it since his hands were kneading your ass. you tugged at his shirt and ran your hands beneath it. over the hot skin of his stomach and chest. he hissed through his teeth, and a lungful of air escaped you when he fell on top of you on the bed.

he yanked on your towel, and it came loose.

you breathed against his lips, but all thoughts vanished when he sucked on your breasts. his hands gripped low on your ass, and you sighed when his fingers slid beneath, brushing your clit and teasing your entrance.

“fuck, you’re wet,” he groaned.

“michael,” you gasped.

beneath your palms, a tremor rolled through his chest. he slowed, kissed your cheek, and murmured against your lips, “tell me to stop and i will.”

you would rather die than tell him to stop.

he watched your face as his fingers pushed further inside of you. you grew hotter than you’d ever been at the way his breathing turned ragged and his body grew tense, as though he struggled with holding himself back.

three of his fingers slid inside and you groaned when he began to move them in and out slowly. the fullness was intense, delicious, and close to tipping you over the edge. he kissed your throat, and you shook beneath him as his fingers fucked you agonizingly slow.

you fisted the sheets, dug your feet into the bed, and when you came he swallowed your noises in his mouth.

the finesse of the kiss faded. he nipped at your lips and jaw. sucked on your tongue. clinked your teeth.

it was messy and dirty. and everything him.

“i’m going to fuck you slowly,” he breathed in your ear.

he did as he said.

and in every possible way.

the kitchen. the living room. the shower. the hallway. the bed.

you didn’t think it was healthy.

you breathed, slept, and consumed everything michael olise.

you slept in his bed. sometimes with your face in his chest. sometimes with his body spooning yours and his arm around you. always with him pressed against you. always with his hands on you and his smell everywhere. you didn’t know how or even when it happened, but somehow, he’d found a way to tear down your boundaries and embed himself in every piece of you.

something touched you deep in the chest.

something warm and fragile.

something unraveling like a rope.

he’d missed a week of training.

he never complained about anything. not when that itch for his attention began and you bothered him, not as you sat on his lap when he was on the phone talking with his manager.

while that bossy side of him was never going away, you were beginning to learn he was more laidback, more gentle, than you’d ever imagined a man like him could be.

you wished he was awful.

he kissed you soft and slow. ran his fingers through your hair. let you pick the movie, though you never got through one film the entire week.

once his thumb started tracing circles around your belly button, you were dying for his hand in lower places and he always gave you what you wanted.

his body covered yours, so heavy, so perfect.

skin against skin. the demanding way he tilted your head to kiss you deeper. the roughness of his palm sliding down your throat. his handprints burning you like brands.

it was all a blur. a feeling that coalesced in your chest.

you pressed your face into his neck and breathed him in. his smell was like nicotine, the drug burning through every capillary and spreading through your bloodstream.

the last thread of the rope snapped.

and then it was nothing but you, him, and a long way to the ground.

thrilling, people would say.

they never said it would hurt.

bliss hummed beneath your skin as he lay on top of you. he ran a rough palm across your cheek and cupped the nape of your neck. his lips brushed yours. “you’re so fucking beautiful.”

the rasp of his voice wrapped around your heart and squeezed. seared it with warmth and the acidic bite of guilt. you used to hate that word, beautiful.

however, the deep, sincere way it rolled off his lips was how your romantic heart had always imagined it to be said.

he kissed you, and you melted beneath him, running your hands over the smooth muscles of his back.

his lips trailed down your neck. “you know what you mean to me, don’t you?”

your heartbeats slowed to nothing, while your conscience spun so fast everything blurred.

why?

why was he doing this to you?

so many feelings, from happiness to anger at your situation, roared to the surface and vibrated beneath your skin. tears burned the backs of your eyes. you were so tense there wasn’t a chance he didn’t notice, but he only kissed your throat as though he’d anticipated this reaction.

an ache cut through your chest.

his forehead rested on yours. inhaling a breath from between your lips, he kissed you softly.

he deepened the kiss and you melted like butter, your heart glowing and mending itself back together.

“michael,” you blurted, blinking to clear the thoughts occupying your mind.

he tensed but stopped, his eyes held yours with a look so beautiful it was almost overwhelming.

you swallowed. “i don’t want to do this if there are going to be other women. i can’t.”

he watched you for two tense seconds.

“you’re enough for me.”

your heart grew. you suddenly realized that even if you’d heard those words from him at the beginning, you wouldn’t have believed them. however, now an unexplainable feeling told you his words rang true.

confusion passed through his eyes when he saw your expression. “what’s wrong?” he brushed the tear from your cheek.

the rain was warm and light, and you blinked it off your eyelashes.

“i love you,” you breathed.

his gaze burned around the edges, as the mantra of your pulse filled the space between the two of you.

love me too. love me forever.

he slid his hand to your nape, and pressed his words to your ear. “and i love you.”

he loved you forever.

the metronome in your chest pulsed to a different rhythm. one of sleepless nights, rough hands and white t-shirts.

you lay your head on his chest and listened to his heartbeat, how strong it was, how in sync it was with yours.

he was all yours.

he was comfort, security, and need, all in one.

it had a name.

Today, knowing he wouldn't be back until long past midnight, you’d turned the night into a spa routine: a hot bath, lavender-scented body scrubs, rich body butter, and a hint of vanilla oil smoothed over your collarbones and hips. By the time you finally crawled under the covers, your skin smelled like flower garden.

You were fast asleep in just a pair of black lace panties and his oversized, stretched-out t-shirt, one bare leg thrown over the bunched-up duvet as if anchoring yourself to him.

Djed had come home completely wired. Training had been a disaster today, a grueling session compounded by a heated argument with the coach that left his blood boiling. His shoulders still hummed with the tension. His jaw remained clenched around furious retorts he’d replayed a dozen times on the drive back.

And there you were, peaceful, unreachable, smelling maddeningly good.

He sat on the edge of the mattress in his boxer briefs, a damp towel slung over one shoulder, staring down at you. He watched the way your ribs rose and fell beneath his t-shirt, which had ridden up in your sleep to expose the soft curve of your waist, the swell of your lower ribs, and the underside of your breast.

Streetlight bled through the blinds, striping your bare shoulder, your cheek, and the black lace edge of the underwear he’d tugged off you with his teeth two nights ago. It hid practically nothing.

He remained on the edge of the bed, transfixed, devouring you with a hungry gaze. He’d showered, forced himself through rounds of box breathing, but none of it had been enough to quiet his racing mind.

His hand found your calf first. Just resting there. Warm palm over smooth skin. He pressed his thumb into the muscle, working in slow, testing circles. Your leg didn’t twitch. You didn’t react at all.

Moving closer, he eased himself onto his knees on his side of the bed. Reaching out, he slid his hands under your hips, carefully shifting your heavy, sleep-softened weight toward the center of the mattress. He was testing the waters, waiting to see if you’d wake. You merely let out a soft, incoherent murmur in your sleep, your hips rolling slightly against the sheets in a subconscious, inviting sway before settling again.

He realized then — you were completely out. And you were entirely at his mercy.

Djed lay down behind you, settling on his side. He stared at your back, taking in the way his shirt pulled taut against your spine, the exposed curve of your breast, and the sweet tilt of your ass.

His cock stirred against his thigh. Still soft, but waking.

Slowly, he placed his palm over your ass. He paused, soaking in the softness of your skin, before his fingers began to glide downward. He traced the border of the lace, his hand slipping lower, moving right between your thighs.

When his fingertips grazed the cotton gusset of your underwear, he felt heat. Damp, unmistakable heat.

“Fuck,” he breathed, barely audible.

The sight of you, the scent of your skin, and the sudden touch of your slickness shattered whatever restraint he had left. His cock hardened instantly, pressing thick and flush against the back of his briefs.

His hand stayed buried between your legs, his fingertips lightly tracing the damp cloth. The faint pressure against your folds drew out more moisture, pooling warm and thick against his fingers.

Unable to resist the heat, his hand slipped beneath the elastic band of your lace panties.

The first touch was experimental — two fingers dragging through your slick folds, parting them to find that hidden seam of heat. The texture was already changing, liquid building everywhere his pads circled your entrance.

Your hips shifted. A tiny, unconscious roll toward his hand.

“That’s it. Fucking take it.” He breathed.

He dipped one finger inside, just to the first knuckle. Your walls clenched around him, muscle memory doing the work, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning too loud.

His cock was aching now, trapped rigid and flushed beneath his briefs.

Shifting carefully so he wouldn't disturb you, Djed rolled onto his back beside you, propping himself slightly against the pillows. He palmed himself through the fabric for a brief moment, squeezing in firm strokes to let the friction build. But that wasn’t enough already.

He reached back between your legs, his fingers slipping deep inside your lace panties to resume working your slick heat. He groaned.

With his other hand, he reached down and hooked his thumb into the elastic band of his boxer briefs, tugging the fabric down to let his heavy shaft spring free. He wrapped his fingers tightly around the bare length, matching the rhythm of his finger inside you. In and out. Slow. Controlled. The head leaked steadily, pre-cum dripping onto the sheets.

“You have no idea how fucking badly I need this,” he murmured, slowly withdrawing his finger and bringing it to his mouth. He sucked it clean, tasting the faint salt-sweet beginning of your arousal, his eyes rolling back as the taste hit him.

Suddenly, your lips parted. A soft exhale escaped, making Djed freeze dead in place. He waited, holding his breath. But nothing more came.

Feeling a fresh surge of confidence, Djed shifted his weight, settling on his side beside you, propped up on one elbow. From this new angle, he could watch the faint flutter of your eyelashes, the tiny twitch of your fingers against the pillow, and the way your breathing grew just a fraction more ragged as your body responded to something your conscious mind hadn't even registered yet.

“Goddamn, baby.” He said it into the space behind your ear, where your skin smelled like the vanilla oil and lavender you’d smoothed on earlier. “You have no idea what you look like right now.”

His eyes traveled down to the hem of his oversized t-shirt, which was still barely clinging to the curve of one boob, teasing him. His cock throbbed in response, heavy and demanding. He’d deliberately avoided touching the top half of your body this whole time — saving the sweetest part for last.

Carefully, his fingers caught the soft cotton fabric. He pulled it up, slow and agonizingly deliberate. The fabric caught briefly against your other hip where your body pressed into the duvet, then slid free, bunching above your ribs to expose the soft swell of both your breasts to the cool bedroom air.

His breath hitched. Your chest was completely bare, your breasts resting soft and heavy against the mattress in your sleep. He hooked a finger into the neckline of the shirt, dragging it up just a fraction more so nothing was hidden from him.

Your nipples were soft and relaxed. He circled one peak with the pad of his thumb. Once, twice. On the third pass, your skin puckered tightly under the friction, the peak hardening into a tight knot. A tiny shudder rippled through your chest, though your eyes stayed closed. Your legs parted another inch, an invitation you didn’t know you were making.

His cock twitched again. Now he was impatient. Touching your chest had only dialed up the ache in his groin.

His hand left your breast, reaching down to wrap tightly around his bare shaft once more. He stroked himself hard and fast, a few desperate passes to keep from losing his mind entirely, before leaning down until his lips brushed the shell of your ear.

“I’m gonna touch your cunt now,” he murmured. “I know you can’t hear me. But I’m telling you anyway.”

His free hand returned to your bare hip, his fingers smoothing over the soft curve of your rear before slipping under the edge of your underwear. He began to drag it down, easing the fabric past the swell of your ass, down the backs of your thighs, stopping only when the panties were pinned loosely around your knees.

And just like that, you were completely bare, completely unaware, still mumbling something sweet and incoherent into your pillow as the cool bedroom air kissed your exposed cunt and boobs.

You stayed like that for a moment, your breasts and cunt entirely open to his gaze, until his hand returned, pressing directly onto your bare inner thigh.

He didn’t plunge in. As desperately as his body demanded it, he forced his hips to stay grounded, his breath coming in shallow hitches through his nose.

Djed lined the head of his cock up with your slit, using the warm palm on your inner thigh to hold your leg open just a fraction wider. He pressed forward, just enough to glide the tip from your clit down to your opening, and back up again.

He groaned loudly. You were truly scorching hot. The natural slick you’d pooled in your sleep had coated your folds completely, creating a friction so smooth, so impossibly wet, that it sent a shudder straight up his spine. He was barely holding himself.

He stroked himself against you like that for what seemed like minutes. He didn’t want this to end. Slow, excruciating passes dragged his sensitive tip over your swollen clit, painting his pre-cum into your heat and taking your slick in return until the head of his cock was completely glazed. The wet, rhythmic quiet of it filled the space between your bodies, a sliding sound that made his jaw ache from how hard he was clenching his teeth.

It was torture. Pure, self-inflicted torture. Every time he dragged himself up your length, the cool night air hit his wet cock, making the next press back against your body feel ten times hotter.

He was losing his mind. He looked down at your face — still peaceful, eyelashes resting soft against your cheek, your lips parted just enough for your breath to warm the pillowcase — and the contrast made his hips twitch involuntarily. Your body was producing so much wetness for him, yielding so effortlessly to his touch, that for one terrifying second he genuinely doubted you were still asleep.

“Baby?” he breathed into the quiet. “You awake?”

You didn't answer. You just let out a long, heavy sigh into the pillow, your hips making a subconscious shift into the pressure of his thigh, seeking more heat, completely unaware of the edge he was balancing on.

That small, sleepy roll of your hips snapped the last thread of his restraint.

Djed pressed down, leaning his weight forward. He sank the head of his cock past your slick lips. Just the tip. Just an inch of thick head pushing into your narrow heat before the sudden, intense stretch made him freeze.

The tight ring of your entrance gripped him like a vice.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck...” A broken rasp tore from his throat.

He held himself there for three agonizing heartbeats, letting his cock pulse against your tight walls, before slowly pulling all the way back out until only the tip was left resting against your entrance again.

Then he did it again.

He pressed back in — just the head, half an inch deeper this time — letting your natural wetness swallow him effortlessly without a drop of lube. He dragged himself out, then slid back in.

He was edging himself directly against your sleeping body, using your tight, passive heat to push himself to the absolute brink, his muscles shaking with the sheer effort of keeping his thrusts shallow enough not to shock you wide awake.

Your hips rolled. “Djed…”

Your body was chasing sensation even if your mind was still offline. Your hand, the one that had been flung across his pillow, twitched and curled into the sheet.

“You’re dreaming about me,” he whispered. “I bet you are. I bet I’m fucking you in your dream right now, aren’t I? Bent over something or on your back with your legs up…”

He buried his face in your hair and gave one firm, deliberate roll of his hips, sinking another full inch deep. Your mouth opened on a gasp and then softened again. The sudden stretch made your inner walls clench around him, and the tight, wet pulse of it made Djed bite his lower lip hard enough to taste copper.

“So fucking tight when you’re asleep. I need to be inside you,” he said, his raspy whisper breaking with genuine desperation. “I’m not gonna last, baby. I don’t give a fuck.”

He couldn't hold back a second longer. Djed shifted his stance, planting one knee firmly between your legs to anchor you, his other hand pressed into your lower back, arching your hips up just so.

He rocked forward once — not entering completely, just parting those wet folds so the slick ridge of his cock dragged directly across your clit. Glazed in your heat, he was scorching hot, and he had to physically stop himself from slamming home all at once.

Instead, he pushed in slow. Inch by excruciating inch, letting your sleepy, heavy body stretch around him.

Your body welcomed him. Swallowed him completely. Your inner walls gripped the entire length of him in a slick, pulsing sleeve, and as he finally seated himself to the hilt, Djed dropped his forehead against your shoulder, a breathless string of profanity spilling against your skin.

“Fuck, fuck-”

It was pure, blinding bliss. The sensation of your scorching, velvety narrowness squeezing him after minutes of grueling tension was so intense it almost made his eyes water. He felt like he was drowning in you — the scent of vanilla on your skin, the tight grip of your body, the quiet safety of the bedroom washing away every ounce of anger and fatigue from his brutal day.

He began to move.

Short thrusts at first, barely pulling out before grinding back in as deep as he could go. Your body responded in kind — legs spreading wider of their own accord, hips canting up to meet his rhythm, your breath coming in the soft little sounds that weren’t quite waking but weren’t quite sleeping either.

“You feel that?” He fucked into you deeper, a long drag that made the bed frame creak. “That’s my cock splitting you open while you sleep. And you’re taking it so good. So fucking good. Your pussy’s drooling on me.”

He set a rhythm now, slow strokes that bottom out with his hips flush against your ass. The sound in the room was obscene: the wet slap of flesh against flesh and the heavy squelch of your heat getting slicker with every thrust. He could see it, the way your pussy lips stretch around him, the creamy ring of arousal building at the base of his shaft.

Your spine arched, pressing your hips higher, giving him a deeper angle. Djed took it without hesitation, his fingers digging into your hip hard enough to leave fingerprint bruises as he pounded into you with a desperation that bordered on feral.

His thrusts grew sloppier, harder, driven by pure instinct. He leaned over you, pressing his broad chest flat to your back, his mouth hovering right at the shell of your ear. His breath came hot and ragged against your neck.

“Gonna fill this sleeping little cunt up,” he growled, the low rasp vibrating straight into your spine. “Gonna pump you so fucking full.”

His free arm reached around your waist, his hand sliding down your flat stomach until his thumb found your swollen clit. He began thumbing it in tight circles, syncopating the friction with the relentless push of his hips.

Your hips bucked. Your breathing went completely ragged, the rhythm fracturing as the pleasure spiked past the threshold of sleep.

“M-Mhm… Djed?”

Your voice was small, sleep-thickened, and completely dazed. Your eyelids fluttered open, heavy and unfocused in the dark room. “What… what are you doing?”

The question barely finished leaving your lips before your brain finally caught up to the physical reality of your body — the massive, stretching weight buried deep inside you, the ruthless friction on your clit, and the wall of heat pressed against your back. The realization hit your nervous system all at once, transforming your hazy question into a long, helpless moan that echoed through the quiet bedroom.

Djed hummed in approval against your cheek, his hips not missing a single beat.

“Yeah?” he whispered, his voice dripping with possessive warmth. “You like that, baby?”

You let out a trembling breath, your fingers reaching back to clutch blindly at the thick forearm he had wrapped around your waist. “Djed… it’s- it’s so-“

“I know,” he cooed, his voice dropping into that smooth murmur that always made your heart melt. “You’re so good for me, taking all of me so well. Look at how sweet you feel around my cock. Feel how wet you are? Feel that?”

Your hand flew down to where your bodies joined, your fingers brushing his shaft and feeling the heat and slickness coating him. He was right. You were dripping.

He paused his thrusts for just a second, burying himself to the hilt and letting you feel the pulsing weight of him filled to capacity.

“Came home so fucking hard for you. You were sleeping so pretty. You’re gonna be good for me, aren't you?”

You could only nod against the pillow, totally hazy, completely overstimulated, and already halfway to an orgasm before your brain has even fully registered the reality.

Djed gently turned your face toward him so he could press a soft kiss to your temple.

“Take a breath for me,” he instructed softly, his lips tracing down your jawline. “In through your nose, baby. Let your hips drop into the bed. There you go... just like that.”

As you exhaled, your body naturally relaxed around him, sinking deeper into the mattress. Djed let out a satisfied hum.

“Good girl,” he praised, the words dripping with warm affection. “See how much better that feels? Now just stay like this for me while I work this off.”

He began to pull out slow, dragging his length all the way back before bottoming out with a sudden, firm push that made a sharp moan tear from your throat.

“That’s it,” he whispered, rhythmically rocking into you, his tone calm and steady even as his body worked yours with intense, athletic power. “Let me hear you. Tell me it feels good.”

“It feels- fuck, Djed, it feels so good-“

“Yeah?”

His thumb hit your clit again with two fingers, maddeningly slow rotations, pressing down with just enough pressure to make your vision blur.

Your mouth fell open. A tiny whimper escaped.

“Shhh,” he cooed against your ear. “I got you. I got you, baby.”

He kept the pace brutal, deep, and steady, using his strength to drive into your sweet spot over and over while his soft voice anchored you through the storm.

“You’re right there,” he murmured into your ear, his warm breath fanning your skin as your inner muscles began to quiver around him. “I feel you tightening up. Let it break. I’ve got you.”

Knowing exactly how a sudden shift in pace always shattered whatever control you had left, he pulled out almost completely before slamming back in, knocking a sharp cry from your chest as the headboard cracked against the wall.

Then he did it again. And again. Each thrust drove deeper than the last, his locks whipping wild with his movement, the heavy tips flicking against your bare shoulders and neck with every brutal push. The wet slaps of his hips echoed through the quiet room alongside the rhythmic brush of his hair over your skin.

“Taking this cock like you were made for it.” His words came in ragged bursts between thrusts. “Sleeping all peaceful… didn't even know you were about to get fucked stupid. Now you're awake and you're still taking it. Look at you. Fucking look at you.”

His hand snaked up to your throat, anchoring you against him without squeezing. Your t-shirt had ridden up to your neck, his bare chest pressed to your back, and you could feel the frantic pound of his heartbeat through your spine.

“You gonna cum on this cock?” His thumb pressed harder on your clit. “You gonna soak my fucking balls while I fill you up?”

Your answer was a broken, keening sound that didn't resemble words at all. The pressure was building, hot and sharp, coiling low in your belly. Your fingers clawed at the sheets.

“Come on, pretty girl,” Djed growled. “Let go. Right now. I want to feel it. I want to feel you milking my-“

The praise was the final push. Your body bucked against his hip, a high, wrecked moan escaping you as your orgasm snapped. Your pussy clamped around his cock in tight, pulsing waves, and Djed's composure shattered completely.

“Fuck yeah, just like that-“

He buried himself to the root, driving deep one last time and pinning you to his chest as his cock kicked and emptied. He held you tight against his hips, groaning into the nape of your neck while he poured hot inside you, his grip turning bruising as his hips jerked involuntarily with each pulse until you could feel the warmth blooming deep in your stomach.

The room fell quiet except for the twin sounds of your ragged breathing.

He stayed in you, softening inside your heat with his forehead pressed to your shoulder blade. His thumb traced lazy, gentle circles on your hip where he'd held you so tightly.

“You okay?”he finally whispered.

“Mmm.” You couldn't form sentences yet, couldn't even form thoughts.

His mouth pressed tenderly into the curve of your shoulder.

“Good girl,” he whispered softly, all the tension from his long day finally gone. “My good girl.”

-> reblog to support me, if you enjoyed reading this and please let me know your thoughts in the comments! ཐི❤︎ཋྀ

stomach clenching, you picked up the book you were about to read, opened it to a random page, and pretended to devoutly read. your back was to the doorway, but you didn’t need to see it to know he’d silently entered the room. his presence settled over you like a blanket of slithering vipers: black, smooth, and threatening to bite.

you felt him move to the couch opposite you and take a seat.

chink . . . click.

the sound broke the silence and squeezed the pulse point in your throat. your mind was a mess trying to decipher the product of the noise, but you forced yourself to nonchalantly flip a page.

the room remained silent except for the incessant noise that frayed the edges of your nerves.

chink . . . click.

you imagined this was worse than chinese water torture. you suddenly knew michael would continue whatever game this was for hours.

you gave in, flicked your gaze to him, and asked, “do you need something?”

elbows braced on his knees, his eyes held steady on a zippo lighter in his hand, which he opened and closed. his demeanor was so cold a chill spread through you.

“tell me who you belong to.”

his order was vague, but somehow, you knew what he wanted. as always, your spirit ached to fight him, though a voice in the back of your mind cautioned you.

“i’m yours.”

chink. “who else’s?” click.

the powerplay was beginning to blister. you may as well be on your knees at his feet just so he could reject you again.

with a shallow breath, you forced, “just yours.”

“just mine.” the words froze to ice, and his eyes finally lifted to yours, an immoral matte black. “your misery, your attention, your body—all mine.” the caustic words settled on your skin, slowing each inhale. “i’m beginning to think i need to prove it to you.”

your heart plummeted when you understood what this was about.

the kiss.

a recollection hit you. this morning, when you’d stopped by to watch michael train, kylian hadn’t kissed you on impulse after all. just before he did, he’d looked over your shoulder at something—or someone—behind you.

you were nothing but a chess piece being played in their vengeful game.

you slapped the book beside you on the couch and stood. “i’m really not interested right now, but maybe tomorrow.”

the growl from deep in his chest resounded in your ears before he shot to his feet and flipped the coffee table over. the antique hit the wall and cracked along with your composure. fine ornaments went flying, shattered on the floor, and skidded across the marble.

and he said you had a temper.

heart in your throat, you held your ground and his stare. michael took advantage of the now clear space between the two of you to stride toward you, an unstable violence raging in his eyes.

something drew him to a halt. he exhaled and ran a hand down his chest in such a refined way it was like he believed he was the composed one before grating, “go to your room before i do something i’ll regret.”

a second ago, that was exactly where you planned to go, though since he’d demanded it, your room was now the last place you wanted to be. you stared at him, digging your nails into your palms as the chaos inside begged for an outlet.

his eyes hardened, and, in a menacing tone, he threatened, “go.”

you were warned, so, in essence, you had no excuse for what poured out of your mouth. “bite me.”

he watched you for a second that felt like an eternity, and then, a cruel, disbelieving chuckle escaped him. after wiping the mirthless laugh away with a hand, he gritted, “don’t say you didn’t ask for it.”

in one stride, he grabbed the nape of your neck and pulled your mouth to his. the rough action stole your breath, which escaped in a hiss of pain when he bit down hard on your bottom lip. but as he soothed the sting with a soft lap of his tongue, a flame ignited, expanding liquid fire between your legs.

your mind disliked this man with a passion right now. you tried to shove him away, to turn your mouth from his, but the iron grip on your nape didn’t relent. your body held a different stance. it inhaled the heat of his, begging for more force, more intensity, more friction—so much more.

the hot press of his lips and the taste of him sent a desperate hum through your blood, drawing you so close to the edge a cold sweat battled the inferno within. he slid his tongue against yours, creating a heavy ache in your core that scattered all thoughts for a feverish second.

just as he thought the fight in you had faded, you bit down on his bottom lip so hard you tasted blood and shoved you away from him. you caught your footing, the lack of his body heat making you cold.

“where’s the passion you gave kylian?” he asked harshly, wiping blood from his lip with a thumb. “i won’t believe you have reservations about kissing two men on the same day.”

a knot of anger stretched in your chest, forcing the insult from you. “the only reservation i have is kissing you.”

the next second of silence suffocated you, his eyes not leaving yours while a muscle ticked in his jaw. “i guess we’re both narcissistic then.”

you swallowed and watched him warily. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

a sinful glint stole the heat from his eyes, the words cool and apathetic.

“i’ve never been one to mix kissing and fucking.”

he didn’t intend for tonight to end with a cold shower.

heart pounding like a racehorse’s hooves on dirt, you backed up until you bumped into the couch. you told yourself to stay strong and retain your dignity at all costs, but when he took a single step in your direction, you blurted, “i’m a virgin.”

michael didn’t even consider it before laughing humorlessly. “you’re such a fucking liar.”

“it takes one to know one, doesn’t it?” your voice shook. each step he took toward you, you mimicked in the opposite direction until you stood behind the couch, a simple piece of furniture the only divider between the two of you.

“mm. we don’t know each other that well yet, but we will.”

his words should dissuade any woman and send her running to find literally anyone else. but you didn’t want another. not to mention, he was incredibly hard against his training shorts. who was the liar now?

you pulled your lip between your teeth and dragged your eyes back up to his. the anger melted from his gaze when he saw your expression, morphing into a heat that smoldered.

“you did this to me.” your eyes narrowed. “now, fix it.”

his gaze hardened. “you don’t know what you need.”

“maybe not, but i do know what i want.”

it was clear what that was, but he found himself asking anyway. “and what do you want?”

“right now . . . you.”

fuck. that wasn’t what he expected you to say. he anticipated a silent blush or for you to ask for an orgasm. not him.

“you’re embarrassing yourself.”

“i’m not the one with a hard-on,” you returned.

a sliver of humor rose up his throat, but he held in the laugh. the couch no longer separated the two of you as he rounded it and stepped into your space, his hands settling at your waist before he lifted you in one smooth motion.

you let out a surprised laugh as he carried you down the hallway, nudging the bedroom door open with his shoulder before throwing you onto your back on the bed. your chest heaved, your gaze on michael straddling your hips. he took you in for a second and tugged his shirt over his head in one smooth motion—throwing it carelessly to the floor.

you became aware of all the heat pressed against you; of his legs straddling your hips; of his shirtless torso decorated with more ink. your eyes slid down his body. you had no idea why he hadn’t taken his clothes off sooner if he was trying to sleep with you. you’d like to say you were strong enough to resist temptation in all its forms, but—

“this is why i don’t fuck virgins. they get clingy as hell.”

you laughed lightly. “i’m not going to fall in love with you, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

first off, “afraid” was the last thing he felt when it came to fucking you.

second off, what the hell? you could fall in love with a goddamn rock.

then his thoughts went to kylian, and poison blistered through his veins.

“why not?” he slid his thumb across your lips, his voice lowering to a warning. “is your heart already taken?”

he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what you had to say, so, when your lips parted with a shallow breath, he pushed his thumb between them. your eyes were half-lidded as you closed your mouth around his finger. the hot glide of your tongue slid down to solidify in his groin. he pulled his thumb free and wiped the wetness across your lips, taking in everything about you.

a thin tank top concealed the rise and fall of your breasts. you were hard to look at and hard to look away from. so soft, so perfect, so goddamn fuckable.

it was a nightmare.

you bit your lip between your teeth, your breath growing slower the longer he looked at you. he could close the distance so easily and feel your tongue against his.

unwillingly, his gaze drifted to your nipples, visible beneath your tank top.

michael couldn’t control the urge to yank down the thin fabric and suck a nipple into his mouth. as if your tits weren’t tempting enough, the heat of your pussy seared his cock through your shorts. his muscles tightened as he resisted the urge to grind against the warmth; to tug your flimsy shorts to the side and push deep inside of you. he knew he’d find you wet and tight—so fucking tight.

with a growl of frustration, he sat back on his haunches in an effort to put some distance between the two of you so he could think. karma would bite him in the ass if he fucked you. he knew what you needed and that he couldn’t give it to you. his conscience was a goddamn cockblock.

he wanted you so bad, the desire grabbed ahold of him, twisted beneath his skin, and demanded he take you. at this point, he didn’t think he could allow you to go even if you changed your mind. and the loss of control suddenly made him hate you a little bit.

all thoughts stalled when you pushed up from the bed with a hand and ran the other down his chest. the simple touch burned like a line of fire, sending all the blood in his body south. both of you watched your hand trail down his abs before it stopped at his shorts—then at his boxers, where you traced the waistband with a finger. each back and forth motion throbbed in his groin.

when your hazy gaze lifted to his, a ripple of darkness slithered through him. the lust in your stare was all his.

fuck karma. he needed to get this shit out of his system right now.

“i want . . .” you flushed and, unable to finish the sentence, your fingers tugged his waistband down an inch, showing him what you wanted but couldn’t say. your hand grazed the head of his cock. the smallest brush turned his blood to liquid fire, drumming hot and heavy inside of him. but he needed to hear you say the words.

“you’re going to have to be more specific.”

your hand slipped beneath his boxers and over the length of his dick. he hissed through his teeth. heat curled at the base of his spine, sending a shudder outward. nothing was practiced about your touch—in fact, it felt a little unsure. he didn’t know if it was because he’d waited so long to get to this point with you or because your inexperience was a novelty, but, disturbingly enough, your hand down his boxers made him harder than he’d ever been in his life.

“i want this,” you breathed, wrapping your fingers around his cock before slowly stroking it from the base to the head. a low groan rose up his throat.

he needed to tighten your grip, but knowing he couldn’t let you push him too far yet, he covered your hand with his to still the movement.

feeling like he needed to make himself crystal clear, he said, “i’m not going to fuck you slow and sweet.”

“bummer.” you pouted. “i thought i was in for something really romantic here.”

he was too hard to be amused by your sarcasm.

“it’ll mean nothing to me afterward.”

“god, stop talking,” you said with frustration. “i’m not that delicate. just fuck me like you would fuck anyone else.”

his entire body quieted. the fact that shit just came out of your mouth sent a wave of fury down his spine. in a flash, he threw you onto your hands and knees, yanked your head back by your hair, and pressed his hard cock against your ass.

“this?” he growled. “this is how you want me to fuck you?”

you panted, not resisting the hold he had on your hair.

he was now more pissed than he was hard. you didn’t seem to give a shit if he fucked you like anyone else, while he felt like setting everything on fire at just the idea you were imagining someone other than him.

“i don’t want to hear that on your lips ever again.”

when he released his grip on your hair, you exhaled, your head falling forward. “why not?”

“because i fucking said so.” because he didn’t like it. if you wanted it just like anyone else, you should have brought another woman in with you. and, oddly enough, he didn’t want anyone else’s hands on you—females included.

you glanced at him over your shoulder, and the soft look in your eyes, unsure but hot, rushed all his attention to his dick pressed against your ass.

the anger dissolved, leaving his body tight and throbbing with suppressed lust.

he grabbed your shorts and pulled them down, exhaling a ragged breath at the sight. running his hands over your ass, he molded the soft flesh to fit his palms before slapping it. you inhaled, and your hips arched.

he couldn’t stop himself from pulling back to bite each bare cheek and then lick you from your pussy to your ass. you moaned and rocked back against him.

michael wiped a hand across his mouth in an effort to calm the blood pounding in his ears. though the sight of you on your hands and knees stretched his willpower thin. you were so goddamn hot, he slapped your ass again hard.

“ow,” you complained half-heartedly. “that hurt.”

“you asked for this.”

“can you just get on with—” he pushed two fingers inside of you and you sighed, “oh, god.”

you clenched down on him so tightly, he groaned and pulled his fingers free before he could give in to the urge to fuck you with them. making a noise of frustration, you turned your head to watch him remove his shorts and boxers, wrap his hand around his shaft and stroke it once, your eyes half-lidded.

“do that again,” you breathed.

fuck. you wanted to watch him jack off.

“another time.” when he wasn’t going to have to fight the need to come.

when he rubbed the head of his cock against your pussy, the heat of it almost burning, a tremble coasted through you, and your fingers gripped the sheets.

“nervous?” he asked coarsely.

“yes.”

“good.”

you were tense as fuck when he eased inside of you—so tense you almost resisted him completely. he caressed your ass and started saying shit he had no control of, unaware of what language he spoke. it could have been fucking mandarin.

“i know you can take me, you’re so goddamn wet . . . this is the nicest cunt i’ve ever seen.”

you finally relaxed. he watched for your reaction while sliding in farther, until he was as deep as it could go.

his eyes closed for a second.

you gripped him like a tight, wet fist. every cell in him ached for more, but he gave you a moment to adjust, running his hands over the curves of your ass and squeezing.

after a moment, you rocked back against him, and he gave you more, pulling out all the way before slowly pushing back in. you groaned and dropped to your elbows, bracing your hands on the headboard. he knew this pussy was made to fuck, but . . . jesus. he slapped your ass in frustration, and when you clenched around him, it took every ounce of restraint to maintain the slow pace.

you glanced over your shoulder, your eyes settling on each lazy thrust. he rasped, “you like to watch?” and before you could answer, he fucked you a little harder.

your head fell forward, and the sight of you biting down on the pillow to quiet your moan sent a heady rush to his head, lighting a violent fire inside him. he hissed at the tight pull of your cunt, pressure tightening at the base of his spine. he was lost for a moment, taking you hard and watching your ass jiggle with every thrust.

when you reached back and grabbed his wrist, your nails digging in, he realized it was a reflex of pain and slowed. he was probably fucking you too hard. he didn’t like the heavy feeling that knowledge sent to his chest. though what he didn’t like the most was the fact you weren’t going to tell him if he was hurting you.

wrapping an arm around your waist, he pulled you back against his chest.

you were panting; fucked into a soft, compliant haze. your head fell to rest against his shoulder. he felt your heart pounding, your fingers gripping his wrist, and your breath against his neck. they weren’t things he usually noticed, and somehow, all of it created a knot behind his ribs.

he skimmed his lips against your ear, his voice rough. “if it’s too much, tell me. or i’ll stop right now.”

he’d rather take a bullet than stop right now.

“i told you i can take it,” you breathed.

“i don’t give a fuck what you can take. i’m not into dishing out pain.”

“you’re not into slow and sweet either. i don’t know what you want from me.” insecurity touched your voice. “i want you to like it.”

fuck. you wanted to please him right now. why did you have to be so selfless? as much as it annoyed him, it also hit him in the solar plexus. he couldn’t seem to do the right thing with you. you felt too good, too soft. it was greedy as hell, but he wanted anything you would give him.

he nipped your earlobe. “trust me, i’d like it if i were fucking you in slow motion.” he tugged at your tank top. “now, take this off.”

you pulled it over your head, the motion consuming him with your soft scent. you smelled so damn good he bit down on your neck and sucked, leaving another mark behind. with a sigh, you turned your head to give him more access. he squeezed one of your tits in his hand and told you, “i think i’ll fuck these next.”

with a moan, your head lolled on his shoulder when he rolled your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. as he played with your tits and sucked at your neck, you grew restless, rocking your hips for friction before rising, pulling him out almost completely, and then taking him back in as deep as possible.

he groaned and let you fuck him for a moment until you were whimpering and trembling for more.

he nuzzled your neck. “do you want to come?”

“yes,” you panted. “please.”

the sound of you begging gave him a fucking rush that rivaled any drug on the market.

he nipped your shoulder and said, “such good manners,” before sliding his hand between your legs. you bounced on him, taking him in with lazy strokes, while he rubbed your clit. your sounds were pushing him to the edge.

“i’m gonna . . .”

he pushed you to your hands and knees and fucked you through your orgasm, holding your hips up when your legs gave out. you shuddered and clenched around him so tightly, the heat sliding down his back threatened to erupt.

breath ragged, he stilled and ran his hand up your spine.

“i want to come inside you.” he had no idea that came out of his mouth until it was too late to stop.

you sighed, giving him your lazy, nonverbal consent.

“don’t let me come inside you,” michael growled. he shouldn’t even be fucking you without a condom—regardless if he was clean, and so were you considering your inexperience.

“i’m on birth control.”

he processed your words for a second before asking darkly, “why? were you going to let someone else have this?” he squeezed your ass cheek.

“no . . . i don’t know.”

not the right answer. in fact, it was so much the wrong answer, he slapped your ass hard enough to welt. you yelped and arched your back, your eyes opening to shoot him a glare over your shoulder. your annoyance faded when he pulled out and thrust back in at an angle that hit your g-spot.

a low moan rose up your throat. he realized he never heard you say his name while he was fucking you.

and he suddenly needed to.

“you want more?”

“yes.”

“then tell me who’s fucking you,” he demanded harshly.

“does it matter?” you tried to rock back against him, but he held you still by your hips.

“yes, it fucking matters.” gritting his teeth, he threw you to your back so roughly you bounced. he pushed inside of you in one hard thrust, braced his hands beside your head, and watched your eyes roll back. your fingers gripped his wrists.

“is this what you want?” he growled.

you were flushed from your orgasm, your breathing rough, but you still managed to say, “yes, yes.”

your soft hands slid down his sides and grabbed ahold of his hips to urge him on. michael hated this position.

staring into a woman’s eyes during sex felt so intimate it was nauseating, but you weren’t meeting his gaze; you were looking at where his cock was deep inside you. he found it hot and somewhat . . . annoying you were focused on the sight instead of his face.

“move,” you breathed.

“no. you want your missionary fuck? tell me who fucked you first.”

“you.”

you trailed your fingers up his arms, across his shoulders, and into his locks, sending a shudder down his spine.

“my name.”

“michael.”

a groan rumbled in his chest, and he started a steady pace, pushing into you with long, slow thrusts. you braced your hands on the bed behind you and rose up to kiss his chest with a graze of teeth, running your mouth everywhere you could reach.

“who’s fucking you now?

kissing the corner of his lips, you breathed, “michael.” then you slid your tongue into his mouth, and he had no willpower to resist sucking it.

he fisted your hair and tugged your head back so he could see your eyes. “and who fucks you from now on?”

“michael.”

he dropped to his elbows, relishing the feel of your tits against his bare chest. you wrapped your legs around his hips, and when he rolled his pelvis to brush your clit, a sigh of pleasure escaped you.

he skimmed his lips down your neck. “you like that?”

you ran your nails down the length of his back in response, rolling your hips against his with every thrust. your little moans were so damn sexy, he kissed you to taste them. you sipped on his bottom lip and then ran your tongue across it. he exhaled roughly.

your lips were so soft, and he parted them with his own, slipping his tongue inside. the kiss went straight to his chest.

“i want to . . .” you panted the words between the slide of his lips. “see you . . .” he sucked your bottom lip and released the flesh with a graze of teeth. “come.”

“you first, baby.”

he grabbed your hands, held them above your head, and grinded against your clit until you shattered beneath him. then he pressed his face into your neck and came inside you, a white-hot fire shooting through him so hard, his vision went black. his muscles shook, so he rolled off you before he crushed you with his body weight.

he caught his breath for a moment and almost laughed at the irony. a virgin made him come harder than he ever had before. when he felt the mattress dip, he automatically grabbed your wrist without looking. then—

tear-stained cheeks. glistening eyes. legs he would die for. you were so beautiful, the sight punched him in the gut. michael pressed his face against your neck with a low groan. “sometimes it hurts to look at you.”

you had somehow filled a blank space inside him. and he couldn’t handle the thought of you anywhere else but with him.

with his hand on your wrist, the taste of him in your mouth, and his eyes on yours. you’d almost said it then . . . you’d almost let those three words escape, but something had blocked them from coming up your throat.

you loved him.

you couldn’t love him.

so you forced the feeling to stay inside where it belonged and not out in the open where it didn’t.

and maybe . . . just maybe, your soul always knew.

he realized you might need some space. he didn’t like the idea—in fact, every cell demanded he keep you on the bed where you belonged just to know you were his.

he could be patient when he really wanted something. but he didn’t want you;

with an erratic heartbeat, you took the short steps toward him. your heart, it was beating so hard because you had undressed for him, leaving only your thong—for him to take off.

as soon as you reached him, he grabbed your nape, threaded his fingers into your hair, and then buried his face in your neck. he made a masculine noise of satisfaction that you could feel deep in your stomach, before it settled into a weight between your legs. you rocked back, not fighting him, but shaken with this lightning bolt exploding in my chest and fizzing through your veins.

your breasts pressed against his hard, warm abs and a shiver rolled through you. djed ran his face up and down your neck, as though he was savoring your smell, or maybe languishing in the fact that he’d caught his next meal.

“fuck. you feel good,” he groaned against your throat.

he wrapped an arm around your waist and lifted you, setting you close to eye-level on the island. the counter was cold against your thighs as he stepped between them, forcing them further apart.

your heartbeat drummed in your ears, and a cold sensation crept through you. he pressed his lips to your throat, kissing a slow line down it. each one sent a sizzle between your legs, and you tilted your head to give him more access, a moan escaping your lips.

“spread your legs.” djed’s command was cold, rough, and rattled the existing fear.

with an unsteady inhale, you complied.

his palms ran up your legs as you did so, his thumbs pressing into your inner thighs with a harshness that made your stomach tighten in an unexpected way. his rough hands felt so absolute against your soft skin.

legs spread, cool air brushed your panties and you were suddenly aware of how wet they were. his gaze touched you there, warm and thrilling yet still tinged with anger.

he yanked you closer by the back of the neck until your bare breasts pressed against his chest. your breathing was erratic as he growled in your ear,

“you’re so goddamn hot it pisses me off.” and then he nipped your neck, hard.

you yelped at the short pain, but it turned into a moan when his thumb pressed down on your clit through the fabric of your thong. his grip tightened in your hair, forcing your head back, and then he sucked a nipple into his mouth. a spark ignited in your lower stomach, the flame spreading through your body like wildfire.

he brushed his thumb over your clit, up and down, while holding a fistful of your hair so you couldn’t even look down. he groaned from deep in his chest and switched breasts, licking and then sucking with a slight scrape of teeth.

an embarrassing sound escaped you, but you were so hot everywhere you didn’t care.

you leaned back on your hands, your hips starting to rock under his touch. his mouth was so hot as he licked and played with your breasts, until you thought you would die from it. when his hands left you, protest screamed in your veins.

with a dark gaze that wasn’t entirely angry anymore, he fisted your thong at your hip and pulled it down your thighs, dropping it to the floor.

you spread your legs once more, past the point of rational thought. his gaze fell between your thighs. he gave his head a shake, running a hand down his shirt.

“fuck.” that’s all he said, before his arms wrapped around the backs of your thighs, he jerked you to the edge of the counter, and then his head lowered between them. you shuddered under the first hot, wet touch of his tongue.

a deep rush of pleasure flooded you, a stronger wave rolling through you at every soft, slow lap he took from the entrance to your clit.

this man was being surprisingly gentle, reverent, in what he was doing. something touched you in the chest.

however, he wasn’t that docile.

his arms held you so securely you couldn’t move your hips an inch, while he took his time licking you, like he was doing it for himself and not you.

“oh, god,” you moaned, digging your hands into his thick locks, running your blunt nails against his scalp.

“what’s my name?” he rasped before his tongue pushed into your entrance.

you made a throaty, porny noise you never knew you were capable of.

when you didn’t answer, his mouth left you, and his smoldering gaze found yours. his words were sharp. “what’s my name?”

“spence,” you breathed.

his eyes flashed, and then a feeling of fullness came over you when he slipped one finger inside you. pleasure ignited, the wick burning through your bloodstream. he held his finger still and you tried to rock, but his grip around one thigh was immovable.

“name?” he pressed.

you shook your head, hating this game. you had “spence” on the tip of your tongue, but when he pulled out his finger and then plunged two inside you hard, you choked on it and it unwillingly came out as “djed.”

a tremor went through you when his mouth found your clit, licking and sucking while his fingers moved in and out of you, again and again. he did it so leisurely, making deep noises of satisfaction every once in a while.

djed was taking his time, slowing down when the pressure built, driving you mad until “please,” escaped your lips. then his fingers curled inside of you, the flame growing hotter.

when he slowed again, you shook your head in panic, your hands tugging at his hair. you didn’t know what you’d turned into, but all you found yourself repeating was “please,” over and over. he finally gave you what you wanted. his firm laps steady, he fingered you faster, harder, until there was nothing but deep, hot pressure.

his dark gaze found yours.

your last thought before the final please left your lips and the pressure exploded through your veins like an inferno was: he loves to be begged. the fire dissipated into a languid heat, spreading tingles throughout.

as you lay against the counter, slack, you pulsed around his fingers, and he only made out with your inner thigh and continued to slowly move them in and out until it stopped.

you let out a shaky breath, running your fingers through his hair, not ready to let it go.

he gave your thighs a last lingering kiss before coming eye-level to you. the air stilled. indecision shook in your hands. your heartbeats danced, warmed, pulsed like they were finally alive.

“jesus, you’re the hottest thing i’ve ever seen.”

satisfaction still shimmering with an orange glow dripped into your chest like a leaky tap. “thank you,” you breathed, your cheeks flushed enough to singe if touched.

his eyes were heavy-lidded, the color brown intoxicated. his thumb grazed your lips and his words were coarse like he hadn’t spoken in a while. “you’re welcome.”

he left a streak of wetness across your mouth, and you knew it was of you. you drew your tongue across your bottom lip and licked it off.

his gaze flashed.

you couldn’t stop yourself. a tremor ran through you as you leaned forward, close enough your breaths intermixed. and then closer until your mouth brushed his.

so soft, so him, so yours.

when he parted his lips, you pressed yours to his and slid your tongue inside. a groan came from deep in his chest, his hands coming to rest on your hips and tightening there. you couldn’t help but feel the slight taste of yourself.

you pulled back, trying to catch your breath. but before you caught it, you leaned in and kissed him again. lazy and wet, you licked inside his mouth. his hand cupped the back of your head, and he sucked on your tongue. you moaned, your fingers running down his shirt that you were begging him to take off.

the next kiss was rough, with a scrape of his teeth before easing into a wet slide. your blood drummed in your ears, rushed through your veins, incinerated like fuel and flame.

he tasted like he smelled, and you couldn’t get enough. you were all over him, running your hands over his biceps, pecs, and into his hair. you kissed his throat with tongue, nipped at his earlobe, and sucked on his neck.

“enough,” djed growled with frustration, and fisted the hair at your nape to make you stop.

you pulled back with half-lidded eyes. your breasts brushed his chest, sending sizzles of pleasure lower and making you ache for friction.

“who fucks you?” he growled.

you shivered. “you do.”

“who else?”

“just you,” you breathed.

a rumble of satisfaction came from his chest, and he rested his forehead against yours. “i’m going to fuck you and then i’m going to come inside you. yeah?” his lips hovered above your own. “will you let me do that?”

“please come inside me,” you sighed against his lips.

he pressed his face against your throat, let out a masculine groan that sent goose bumps down your body, and bit your neck hard enough it would leave a mark.

you sat there with your arms around his shoulders, your breath fanning his throat. his presence soaked through your skin with each inhale. his touch and taste and smell sank so deep they filled the cracks of your heart.

he was becoming a drug, an addiction you would have to feed every day.

he was an infatuation, a craving, a need, and you were sure it was unrequited. but as your fingers ran down his neck and rested on his chest—

bu-bum.

bu-bum.

bu-bum.

your mind drifts back to that night.

a blaze seared through you as you drew your nails down the length of his back. he growled low in his throat, and the slow glide of his mouth roughened.

michael stepped closer, pressing his hard-on against your lower stomach.

when his lips moved to your throat, your head fell against the door with a moan. his hands remained braced on the frame above you. hot and wet, he kissed a path down your neck that set off sparks deep in your core. your vision turned hazy, a heavy heartbeat pounding between your legs. you were a combustible ball of fire burning hotter every second.

he dragged his lips past your collarbone and nipped the soft flesh above your bodice. your nipples tightened at the closeness and warmth of his mouth.

you were losing your mind in this hallway; would suddenly do anything for him to tug your dress down, bare your breasts, and put his mouth on them.

your hands were all over him: his face, his hair, now sliding up beneath his suit to feel his stomach, which was as tight as it looked.

“touch me,” you begged.

his hands didn’t move from above your head, but as if he knew what you needed, he pressed his thigh between yours. right against your clit. you panted, a wave of pleasure sliding down your spine when you rocked against it, already feeling the budding pressure of release.

you were nothing but need, flushed and wet and wanting.

michael pulled back, his eyes narrowed but full of heat as he watched where you grinded on him. watched the bare length of thigh that showed through the slit in your dress. tension lit the line of his shoulders, tightened the muscles in his arms, and the idea he might be trying to stop only made you more desperate for this to continue.

you gripped his neck to pull his mouth back to yours. he refused. you tugged harder. he made a rough noise in his chest, then his eyes lifted to yours, alight with a challenge. he brushed your lips, but when you moved in to deepen the kiss, he pulled back just out of reach. to tease you, or to make sure you knew who was running the show.

when you waited impatiently, he gave you what you wanted, nipping your bottom lip, hard, and then licking it.

you moaned into his mouth and rocked against his leg, needing more friction. the empty pressure between your thighs built and built, and you kissed him without finesse, humming desperately into his mouth.

“fuck,” he rasped against your lips. “are you going to come on me?” his accented voice grated abrasively as sand.

you couldn’t say anything if you wanted to.

michael pressed his leg harder against you. you put your face into his neck, biting down when the orgasm whipped through you—a sweltering inferno that knocked the breath from your lungs.

in its aftermath, you shivered against him.

he finally touched you, fisting your hair and pulling your head back to look at you.

eyes half-lidded, your head fell to rest against the door. maybe you should be embarrassed by how easily and ridiculously fast he brought you to release. instead, you felt nothing but his body heat, how incredibly hard he was against you, and an overwhelming tingling in your veins.

he stared at you for what felt like a long time. and then you watched something violent sweep away the lust in his eyes. stepping back, his shoulders tense, he left you cold while you struggled to catch your breath.

you watched him for a moment and then acquiesced without a word.

once the door shut behind you, you slid down it, trembling, while the hot burn of his lips still smoldered on your skin.

the memory of you grinding on his leg sparked and hissed like electricity between the two of you, burning the oxygen in the room like fuel.

gaze glimmering between heat and something entirely unamused, michael rested his elbows on his knees.

he may as well have just called you easy. resentment stirred inside, but you tamped it down. for whatever reason, he was trying to make you angry. you knew he felt this connection too, and you didn’t want to play games—not with him, not right now.

a restless buzz saturated the air, and you held onto the edge of the dresser. “you can deny it all you want, but we both know there’s something here.”

his gaze narrowed. “there’s nothing here. trust me, if there are happily-for-nows, i’ll never be yours.”

he said your name like you were young, stupid, like you were too immature to recognize something as simple as attraction. if he was aiming for a nerve, he hit it. bitterness singed your lungs until it escaped in one harsh accusation.

“i may be naive, but i know a liar when i see one.”

his pause was the only tell of his surprise, shortly replaced by a slow smile. “so there’s some fire in you after all.”

there was so much fire in you, he had no idea. for years, it had festered inside like a volcano, rumbling and pressing at the seams of tight clothes and expectations. it was so close to erupting a cold sweat spread.

“careful.”

his warning was the last straw. he wanted to see fire?

so be it.

“if the only reason you came here was to warn me away from you, then get out.” your words lashed at the air in the room, the release vibrating beneath your skin with cool adrenaline.

his eyes hardened, the shadows inside them rising to the surface. “nobody talks to me like that.”

he’d blown the top off the bottle you’d pent everything up in for years.

there was no stopping the backlash now. not even the imposing and threatening presence on your couch.

“maybe that’s your biggest problem.”

“so worried about my problems when you have no idea what kind of shit you’ve stepped into.” michael mocked, darkly amused.

you didn’t know what he meant, but you did know you didn’t appreciate him turning this around on you. he was the liar in the room. and your next words became a battle of wills to make him admit the truth.

“you feel this too,” you insisted.

“i don’t.”

your frustrated heart sent a burst of energy through you. you walked past him, with every intention of leaving. you were tired.

but you didn’t make it that far, michael was already on his feet.

“you want to play?” his voice was a growl. “fine, we’ll play.”

he gripped the back of your neck, spun you around, and slammed his lips against yours. anger still brimmed inside you, and you pushed against his hard chest, but you might as well be trying to move a wall.

“don’t fight me,” he said roughly against your lips. “you won’t win.”

you opened your mouth with a retort in mind, but he used the opening to slide his tongue inside. and then you were lost to the wetness and heat, the overwhelming fever writhing and pulsing in your veins. you rose to your toes to give him full access; to fit your body against his. you panted, fisting handfuls of his jacket to pull him closer.

michael groaned and slid his hands around the backs of your thighs. you made a noise of protest against his mouth when you realized his intention.

it was incredibly sexy how easily he lifted you.

wrapping your legs around him, you reveled in how well your bodies pieced together. he squeezed the bare flesh of your thighs possessively, making an angry sound in his throat like he’d been thinking about them too much and was furious with you for it. a palm slid beneath your dress, grabbing a handful of your ass as he walked you to the couch and sat.

you straddled his thighs, your mouths drifting apart so he could pull the dress over your head. the soft sound of fabric hitting the floor slowed the urgency of your movements.

your skin prickled with goose bumps where he looked at you. the lacy hem of your thigh-high socks, the thin straps of your white thong, the shallow dip of your navel, and the way your breasts pressed against the edges of your matching bra with every breath.

“perfect,” he said roughly.

he gripped the flare of your hips, palms sliding up. a soft sigh escaped you as the pressure of his touch ached between your legs. he ran a thumb on you waist, eyes flickering with darkness.

his gentle caress wrapped around your heart and tugged it toward him.

“you feel this too,” you breathed into his mouth.

he bit your bottom lip and responded, “shut up,” but there wasn’t any heat in it.

he caressed the bare curves of your ass, the skin on skin liquefying every nerve within you. his lips traveled down your throat to the tops of your breasts, and he nipped the skin before sliding a rough hand beneath your bra to squeeze the flesh.

pleasure rushed to your core, and you hummed against his neck.

he unclipped your bra and pulled it off. your breasts felt heavy as cool air brushed them, and momentary shyness reared its ugly head. you didn’t know what you were doing with this man—if you’d get out of here in one piece, or if you even wanted to. the idea you might be in over your head sent a rush of nerves to prickle your skin, but the hazy, almost reverent look in his eyes as he ran a thumb across your nipple charged you with newfound confidence.

he leaned in and sucked a nipple into his mouth. you groaned, dropped your head back, and ran a hand into his locks. the wet heat of his mouth tugged between your legs as he moved to the other, and flames curled low in your stomach.

he pressed the soft flesh together so he could bite, lick, and suck from one to the other. you were flushed with a wave so hot, so unstable, you didn’t know if you should push him away or beg him to never stop.

a quick wick burned from the warmth of his mouth to the damp material between your legs that grew wetter and more sensitive each second.

“michael, more,” you begged.

he released a nipple with a graze of teeth and dragged his mouth up your neck. “what do you want?”

anything.

everything.

you merely grinded against his erection with a desperate noise.

and then his hand was where you needed it, palming your pussy through the fabric and running a thumb across your clit.

“this?”

your skin caught fire, burning everywhere, from your ears to the tips of your toes.

his thumb slipped under the strap of your thong, tugging it down a little.

“take it off for me.”

a tremble started in your hands as you pushed your thong down your thighs, adjusting on his lap to slip it all the way off. he released a breath, gaze black as he took in the most private part of you. desire inflated in your throat when he ran his hands down your thighs, dragging your socks with them.

you pressed your lips to his, though he only complied for a moment so he could look at your body again. you were completely naked, and he hadn’t even removed his shirt. it felt like such a dirty act in a hotel room in broad daylight.

“do you come on all your first dates?” he asked, eyes narrowed but full of heat on your body.

you’ve been honest with him so far—you may as well take it all the way.

“nobody else has made me come.”

a momentary pause was your only warning before he gripped your hair, and a gasp escaped you when he pulled your head back by your ponytail. you panted, unresisting the ruthless hold that kept your neck angled toward the ceiling.

“don’t lie to me.”

you fought the aggressive hold with words. “you’re the liar, not me.”

after a second, he loosened the grip on your hair, but as his lips traveled down your neck, you knew he didn’t believe you. his palm pressed against your clit, applying the smallest amount of friction. his hand was rough, and you didn’t need much. you bit your lip to hold in a groan.

michael watched his hand between your legs and roughly said, “i could set a timer and get you off in less than thirty seconds.”

“do you want a trophy?”

he gripped your chin and pulled your eyes to his. “i want you to tell me the truth.”

by his voice and the tightening of his fingers on your cheeks, he expected you to appease his jaded soul in the next two seconds. he withheld the truth but demanded it from you. how ironic. and annoying. his palm moved at a tortuous grind against your clit, and frustration bubbled within. he was playing with you, and you’d lost your patience.

“fine. you want the truth?” you snapped. “if you don’t get me off in the next thirty seconds, i’ll find someone else to do it.”

his hand stilled, and after a second that stretched like taffy, a low chuckle escaped him. the leak of darkness that tainted any humor in it raised the hair on your arms. “so sweet, and then all fire...”

your breath caught at the nip he placed on your jawline, and when his eyes lifted to yours, they were filled with such intensity it stole the warmth from you. you shivered as he dragged a thumb across your lips.

“count down,” he ordered.

what?” you breathed.

“count. down.”

he slipped two fingers through your wetness and pushed them inside of you. you arched your back, dug your nails into his shoulders, and groaned in pleasure and a little pain. this was rougher than anything you were used to, but it only seemed to spark a fuse inside you.

“fuck,” he muttered. “count.”

“thirty…” you breathed. “twenty-nine…”

ecstasy unfurled in your veins like the hit of a drug—a mind-numbing, breathtaking drug—as he slid his thick fingers in and out. he rubbed a spot deep inside of you, hot pressure expanded, and your eyes rolled back.

michael smacked your ass, reminding you to count. the unexpected slap stung your flesh, but it also sent a vibration to your clit that stole your ability to do anything else but moan against his neck. judging by the rumble that vibrated in his chest, he liked your reaction, though the noise ended on a cynical note.

“use your words.”

you didn’t know any words at the moment, so you shook your head.

the next spank wasn’t as pleasurable. it was a lance of fire that brought a yelp up your throat and a tepid glare to your eyes. you thought he wanted to smile, but he didn’t; he only continued to slowly fuck you with his fingers until the annoyance in your gaze faded to half-lidded lust.

when you managed to say, “twenty-five,” he soothed the burn on your ass with a palm, liquefying every muscle in your body, and then he swallowed the sigh from your lips. the kiss lacked finesse while you grinded against his hand, panting numbers into his mouth. the impending release curled down your spine, and you weren’t even at twenty.

a cold sweat started beneath your skin, and your nails dug into his biceps as you tried to hold off for as long as you could.

he nipped your neck. “little liar.”

“twenty…”

you trembled, the flush beneath the surface threatening to erupt. he wasn’t even putting much effort into this, like he knew he didn’t need to in order to win. you were the one riding his fingers. it was against your endgame, but you’d passed the ability to care. you were so wet, there wasn’t any resistance. it was dripping down his hand and your leg.

“you’re making a mess,” the words were bitten between clenched teeth.

“sorr—” a gasp cut off the rest of your apology when his fingers thrust hard, curling against a spot that made you see stars.

“fifteen,” he reminded me coarsely.

you shook your head, unable to say anything.

his thumb pressed on your clit, and another finger eased inside. the extra pressure sent you over the cliff. prickles of flashing heat exploded, your vision dimmed, and your heart pounded to keep up with the scorching blood pumping through you.

his fingers moved slowly, in and out of you, while you caught your breath and the ringing in your ears faded. he didn’t pull his hand away until he wrung the last pulse from you. languid warmth spread through your body, sating you in a way you’d never experienced before.

fifteen breathless seconds.

he won, and you didn’t even care.

you kissed up his neck, making a soft noise of appreciation. he smelled so good, the heady scent hit you like a shot of dopamine.

“and now she’s sweet.” his voice was soft but leashed. he angled his neck away from you like he wanted you to stop kissing him. you were too high on the heat of him and post-orgasmic bliss to stop.

you ran your fingers over his erection, relishing the thick, hard feel of him.

your hand moved of its own volition to feel every inch while your lips and teeth teased a line down his neck. soon, he hissed out a breath and gripped your wrist to stop you.

“i can’t do much more of this unless we’re going to fuck.”

oh.

hesitation flickered to life.

were you ready for that? it would take little effort. you could unzip his pants and have him inside you in seconds—it would be so easy. but something held you back. the fact he wouldn’t admit he felt this connection too.

your pride wouldn’t allow him to have everything of you without giving a piece of himself in return.

your eyes met his, and you knew he saw the resistance behind them. letting out a breath of amusement and frustration, he kissed you on the lips and then moved you off him and stood. naked and cold, with your ass cheek still stinging, you watched him walk to the door.

He doesn’t tell you anything about him. For a moment, he doesn’t even speak.

It’s not unusual. They’re always like this at first. Closed off, guarded, stiff. It’s the shame; the nerves. The knowledge of what they’re doing, how wrong it is; the fear that they’re being set up that doesn’t really settle until they’ve buried themselves inside you.

Yunho—you know his name, at least—doesn’t have any of that. None of the nerves; none of the shame. He seems at peace, at ease; that’s the first thought you have when you see him. He’s in the armchair, facing the door when you enter, a glass of whiskey held in one hand, the other lying on the armrest. He’s not like the men you’ve had before.

Most of them have something off about them, about their appearance; some of them are dirty, unkept, their clothes worn and their beards patchy and uneven. Some of them look so well-kept it feels like an act. A performance. Whether it’s meant for you, or for themselves, or perhaps a wife waiting for them at home, you don’t know. But there’s always something—and it’s never anything you haven’t seen before.

But Yunho looks normal. Tidy. His black shirt, a turtleneck, is ironed, no wrinkles or creases,his black slacks well-fitted. His jacket, dark leather, is draped nearly over the back of his chair. Even the messier things, like his hair that looks a little out of place and the glasses sitting a little down the bridge of his nose, feels like he’s done it on purpose. He’s wearing gloves, too, black leather, tight around his fingers and palm, and his face is expressionless. He doesn’t look like the sort of men you usually find in these rooms.

The only thing that sticks out to you is his eyes. The darkness to them; the small, slight glimmer that keeps them from outright emptiness. When they rake over you for the first time, looking you up and down, taking you in, like an auctioneer appraising their stock, he looks completely impassive.

You don’t know if you’ve ever had that before. You’ve seen a lot of different emotions in people’s eyes, lots of different secrets—shame, nerves, wives, children, careers an exchange like this would burn to the ground. You’ve seen predation, danger; the expression of a butcher all too eager to cut into the flesh. You’ve gotten good at reading them. But you’ve never seen this; you don’t know what it is. Almost nothing—almost hollow—but not quite.

You lock the door behind you, putting the keycard down on the table; he’s already slipped his own into the socket to turn on the lights. Your fingers hover on it for the moment, lingering on the plastic then trailing across the wood. It feels cheap, worn, as plasticky as the card, but it doesn’t matter. Yunho clears his throat, his hand moving in a familiar gesture. You slip off your coat and let it fall to the floor.

“You’re pretty,” he says. His voice is deep, masculine but not throaty; not rough. He sounds assured; even from those two words you can imagine him in a position of authority. You can imagine him commanding a room without much effort. “You dressed up for me,” he notes.

You nod. It was an odd request; you’re used to weird ones, typical ones, like school uniforms and office wear with the skirt too short and even those tacky nurse outfits you find in Halloween stores. Latex is another common one; nylon too. But Yunho—Yunho had asked for leather. High quality, tailored leather.

“You look lovely,” he says. “Such a pretty girl.

Underwear?”

“The c-string you got me, sir.” You feel it every time you move; it’s uncomfortable, a stick-on one with lace on the outside and adhesive on the inside, attaching itself to your pubic bone then thinning out, softer, more gentle cotton against your cunt, then a more rigid section, boned like a corset, held in place by your ass cheeks.

“Very good,” Yunho says. “Mind if I inspect it?”

“I’d like to please you, sir.”

A rehearsed response; he doesn’t seem to enjoy it, as they often don’t. It’s always been a hit or a miss; some fall for it, for the blind obedience and desperation to please, whether for ignorance or for their ego’s sake, thrilled at the thought of a woman who wants nothing more than to satisfy them; others see through it. Understand it to be nothing more than the fruits of another man’s labour; training, not instinct. Of those, some of them enjoy it; others view it as a wall, a barrier for them to break. They want to be the one to see you for who you are. None of them ever will be. Not within Isaiah’s reach.

Yunho doesn’t comment on it. He beckons you closer with two fingers and takes another sip from the glass, eyes never leaving you for a second. You’re slow to approach him, feet shuffling against the floor; you don’t feel confident in these heels, the platforms too high up and the stiletto too thin, but Yunho had asked you to wear them and you’d obliged. His gaze never quite makes it down there, though, or at least never lingers long enough for you to notice.

You stop in front of him, a few centimetres between your legs and his; the hand resting on the armchair snakes around your hip, a large gloved hand coming to sit on your lower back. The bottom of his hand, his ring and pinkie fingers and a small sliver of his palm, rest against the top of your ass. You can’t feel much through the two layers of leather, but in the heaviness of his touch you feel the strength, the steadiness, the sense of authority and possession that makes itself obvious in the energy surrounding him.

He’s certain of himself. He knows everything that happens here is on his terms.

“How old are you?” He asks.

“How old would you like me to be?”

He smiles softly, briefly, almost gently, and shakes his head. “The truth please, little girl. Not fantasy. We’ve plenty of time for that.”

You tell him your age; quietly, lowly, like it’s a shameful secret. Yunho nods. If he feels any type of way about it, he doesn’t let it show.

“You’re young.”

“Not really,” you reply. You’ve seen a lot younger. You know Isaiah’s brought girls younger than you here; so have the other men in the other hotels across town. You’ve seen them in the clubs, back when Isaiah used to have you dance.

“I don’t do that sort of thing,” Yunho says.

“What do you do?”

“Nothing I’m proud of. But nothing illegal, either.”

“All of this is illegal.”

“You know what I mean.”

You do. You nod, swallowing; Yunho’s gaze moves downwards, finally settling for a moment on the shoes then returning to your face. “Do you know why I chose those for you?” He asks.

“No, sir.”

“Because it takes a lot of effort to wear,” he says. “They’re uncomfortable. They hurt. They make you feel unsure of yourself, of your ability to keep yourself upright. But you wore them anyway.”

“Are you a sadist, sir?” It comes out before you can stop it. “I’m sorry,” you say, ducking your head. “I don’t know why I said that.”

“You can say what you like,” he replies. He seems amused. “I have thick skin. I wouldn’t say I’m a sadist. I don’t enjoy pain for its own sake. But subjecting yourself to discomfort—willingly—for me—that touches me. They’re difficult to walk in, aren’t they?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Isaiah says you’re a dancer.”

He knows Isaiah, you think, a little surprised; they usually don’t. The men find you on their own; Isaiah often has little to do with it. But Yunho knows him. Has spoken to him, at least.

“I was,” you answer. “At a club.”

“Did you wear shoes like these?”

“Not so high.”

His hand travels downwards, across your ass, the sound of leather against leather soft over the silence; it comes to rest against the top of your thigh, cold against your skin, just below the hem of your dress. From the contact, you can tell the leather is expensive; soft but firm, thick but not heavy. The tips of his fingers curl around the edge of your thigh, following the curve, stopping just before your other thigh begins. After a moment, his hand moves, slowly, rising upwards, the bottom of your dress coming with it. It comes to rest around your waist, bunched up, your lower half now exposed save for the underwear.

He squeezes your cheek, just slightly, then hums in satisfaction. “Soft cheeks,” he murmurs. “Malleable.”

His hand winds back then returns; a loud, sharp smack then a shooting, stinging pain. You gasp, jolting forwards slightly; his hand returns to where it had landed and rubs at the skin soothingly. “You can take a hit,” he says. “A little sting, can’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” you say.

“Your daddy hit you as a kid.”

You open your mouth to respond but find yourself hesitating for a moment, taken aback; Yunho shushes you, shaking his head slightly. “Just say yes,” he whispers.

“Yes,” you say. “He did.”

“With a belt, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Poor thing,” he coos. “Do you miss him? I think you do.”

“Yeah,” you say. “I miss him.”

Yunho hums. He pushes the tips of his fingers in between your thighs, brushing against your covered cunt. Another sip of his whiskey, a longer one this time; the glass, empty now, dangles from his hand in a loose grip; assured, like he knows no matter what he does it won’t fall. His fingers still press against your pussy. “Troubled little thing he made of you,” he says. He puts the glass down on the side table and pulls his other hand away, letting it rest on his thigh. “Dance for me.”

“Yes, sir.”

You start as you usually do, swinging your hips from side to side, slowly, your legs parted slightly. He watches you intently, expression blank but with something sparking in his eyes. Interest, maybe, or perhaps something more complicated.

Still watching you, he takes the decanter and pours himself another glass. “Turn around,” he orders. “Show me your ass.”

He stops you before you can turn fully; “That’s enough,” he says, when you’re turned about halfway. “Just like that. So I can see your face, too.”

For the next few minutes, it’s silent; he watches you, taking small sips from the glass without ever moving his gaze. And you—you dance. You close your eyes, exhaling; you feel like you’re in a daze, your hips, your body moving of its own accord now, like the movements have awoken something that allowed you to slip into muscle memory. Into instinct; into training so deep rooted you fall into it unconsciously.

“You move beautifully,” he tells you. “You could have been a dancer.”

You nod. You could have been a lot of things. Your legs are starting to get tired.

Yunho seems to notice. Or maybe—probably—he’s just bored of this. Ready for something more exciting. “Enough of that,” he says, then pats his thigh. “Come.”

You perch yourself there, his thigh surprisingly firm, strong enough that you’d have no qualms lifting your feet from the ground if you felt inclined to. You don’t know why you’re surprised, really, Yunho is clearly a strong man. It’s evident in the size of him, the weight of his touch, the faint pulsing of pain on your backside. You suppose it’s that he doesn’t look particularly built; he’s not overly muscular, not like some of the men you’ve seen.

His hand curls around your waist and rests in your lap. The other grips your jaw and tilts your head towards him. The glass of whiskey lies half-finished on the table. “Do you smoke?” He asks. You shake your head. “Try.” He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, then a lighter. “Open up a little.” He pushes a cigarette between your lips, a little way into your mouth. “Hold it between your teeth. Don’t bite.” Once you’ve obeyed, once he knows you’re holding the cigarette steady, he lights it up.

The first inhale makes you gasp, splutter; it’s a weird feeling, almost suffocating, like standing in smog or sucking on a tailpipe. It makes your throat close up and your eyes water; you cough, a chesty sound, and Yunho pats your back. “Easy,” he murmurs. He’s holding the cigarette now; he caught it between his thumb and forefinger when you let it fall from your mouth. “It’s rough, huh?”

“Yes, sir.” You’re still wheezing slightly, your voice strained.

“I’m surprised you don’t smoke,” he says. “They usually do.”

“It never appealed to me.”

“What does?”

You shrug. You dare to think Yunho looks a little sad for you. He takes a long drag of the cigarette, eyes closing for a moment, sighing, then puts it down on the table, still lit. Ash spills and settles atop the wood. His hand returns to your jaw. “I want you to keep your eyes on me,” he says. “Do you want me to touch you?”

“Please, sir.”

“Your hands stay in your lap. Your eyes on me. I like obedience. Try to impress me.”

“Yes, sir.”

First, his hand curls around your thigh. The leather feels impersonal. Cold in every sense. Then it moves, peeling the adhesive of the c-string away from your crotch and pulling it free. Your cunt is bare now; fully exposed. For a moment he just looks at it. “You shave,” he says. “Your preference, or someone else’s?”

“Both.”

“It’s my preference too.” He presses two fingers to your clit, pushing at it, then pulls away. “You have a beautiful cunt. So ripe.”

“It’s all for you, sir.”

He hums. He’s still staring at it. “Tonight, at least.”

His fingers move down, sinking between your folds and spreading them apart. He pulls at them a bit, upwards; you follow the movement, lifting your hips and pointing them outwards slightly to get a better look. He glances up at you, brow tilted, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Smart girl,” he says. “Intuitive. Do you like it when I touch you here?”

“Yes sir.”

“It feels different with the gloves, doesn’t it?”

“Yes sir.”

“Clinical.”

“Yes sir.”

“But you’re still wet.”

You nod. The tips of his fingers push into the opening of your cunt, just a little, like testing the waters. “Tight,” he says. “Clenching around me. Oh, she loves me, doesn’t she?”

“She does.”

“She wants to be stretched.”

“Yes sir.”

“If I take the glove off, you’ll make it worth my while, won’t you?”

“Yes sir.”

He pulls out, then pulls the glove off, putting it down on the table. His hand is large, fingers long and slender. There’s a ring around his index finger, gold and expensive looking. His other hand, still gloved, sits on your hip as he eases two fingers inside you again. You shudder, exhaling; he clicks his tongue. “So warm,” he hums, almost crooning. “Soft, too. Does that feel nice?”

You nod, swallowing; with the thick leather of the glove you felt full, stretched, but the feeling of his skin is something entirely different. Still, it hardly feels intimate; just coldness of a different kind.

His fingers push deeper, sinking in further until they’re pressing against your g-spot. You bite your lip, trying to stay quiet; Yunho shakes his head, pulling his fingers out some then pushing them back in, hard and deep. You choke, whining, and he breathes out a laugh, squeezing your hip. “I want to hear you,” he says, staring to thrust his fingers. “I want all of you. No hiding.”

“Yes sir,” you whisper.

Yunho is clearly good at this, his movements precise, but he doesn’t seem particularly focused, particularly bothered. You get the sense that he’s simply working you open. Taking stock of you, too, perhaps; seeing how you respond to him. Testing you.

It’s not unusual. There’s no reason for them to care for your pleasure, of course; they’re the ones paying after all. You’re just the product for sale.

“How many men have been in here?” He asks, voice low, even. He doesn’t seem bothered, really; just curious. Maybe he’s trying to embarrass you; to remind you of what you are. How dirty; how tainted. He’s curling his fingers as he speaks, stroking your g-spot in small circles. “You probably don’t even know, do you?”

“No sir.” You couldn’t even estimate. You prefer not to try.

“Poor little thing,” he replies. “You shouldn’t be here. Pretty thing like you, you should be someone’s house pet. Not a whore.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You’d be a good house pet, I think,” he says. “Obedient. Quiet. Seen and not heard, that’s what I like. You’d be good at that, wouldn’t you?”

“I would be.”

It’s already your mantra. It’s easier, safer that way. Isaiah prefers you that way, too, always has; he doesn’t like the sound of your voice, says you’re prettier in silence.

“Would you do as I tell you to do?” Yunho asks. His fingers move back and forth now, stroking at you gently, slowly, but firmly. “I’d never have to punish you, would I? I reckon Isaiah’s trained you well.”

“He has.”

Yunho hums. “But I think you’re naturally well behaved, too. Pliant. Accepting pain for the sake of it, just to please me. I could put you over my knee and you’d just lie there and take it. You ever been whipped?”

“Belted.”

“Oh yes.” He nods, smiling. “Good girl. You know what I want to hear. Would you let me belt you? Just like your daddy did?”

“If you wanted to.”

“I’m not in the mood for it now,” he says. “If you were mine, though, I would. Make you cry. Make it hard to sit. Just for my own amusement.”

“If I were yours, you could do as you like to me.”

“That’s right.” He sounds approving. His fingers pull out some then thrust in deeper, firmer, like a reward. “I’d do it whenever you needed it. Or whenever I wanted to. In front of people, too. I have some friends who’d like to see it.”

“Would you let them belt me too?”

His brows lift, a faint sort of surprise on his face. Pleasant surprise, it seems. “That’s a good idea, doll. Maybe I would. And they’d fuck you, too. I’d show you off. Show how well I’ve trained you, how I keep you disciplined.”

“I’d take it.”

“I know you would. And you’ll be good for me tonight, won’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

His fingers pull out, coated in wetness. He wipes them down on his pants, a faint sheen glistening against the black fabric. His hands come to rest on your hips. His voice comes low, soft, almost gentle, his gaze soft as he meets your eyes. “You know I’m going to hurt you, doll.” There’s a solemnity to it, like he’s breaking bad news to you, informing you of a fate he has no control over. He almost sounds regretful; like this is simply the tragic but certain reality. A sentence he has no choice but to carry out.

You nod. “How badly?”

“Nothing you’ll feel for too long.”

“Thank you.”

He pats his thigh. “Come sit,” he says. “Let’s put some colour in those cheeks.”

He moves you himself; one leg on each side, then his hands on your hips lowering you until you’re straddling his thigh. “Stick your ass out,” he says. “Arch your back.”

His hand comes to rest on your ass cheek, grabbing a handful of it and squeezing. “I’m going to spank you,” he says. “And you’ll get off on it.”

“Yes sir.”

His hand pulls away, winding back, then lands. The sound hits you before the pain—it’s loud, like a gunshot, knocking the wind out of your chest before you even feel the sting. When it does come, though, it’s intense; heavy, sharp, burning, blooming across the expanse of your cheek. His other hand, still gloved, resting on your thigh, tightens its grip, the tips of his fingers pressing into the skin. Another hit, on the same cheek, then on the other. You make a noise of pain, falling forwards; the hand on your thigh moves to wrap around your waist and tugs you back into position. “Easy,” he murmurs. Another hit. “It’s not so bad. And it feels good, doesn’t it?”

This time, when he hits you, the arm around your waist moves too, pushing you forwards a little. It presses your cunt into his thigh, rubbing against the material of his slacks as it’s forced forward. Your breath hitches, eyes squeezing shut, and Yunho chuckles. “Yeah, it feels good,” he says. He presses his fingers into your cheek, the blunts of his nails digging into the pained flesh hard enough to make your eyes water. When you open them again, he’s staring at you, at your face, and smiling softly. Knowingly. Satisfied. He loves this.

“Sir,” you breathe.

Another hit. “Say it again.” Another.

“Sir.” It comes out as a whine, your lip wobbling, composure threatening to break as the hits speed up.

He picks up the lighter and the pack of cigarettes he’d put on the side table next to the whiskey and lights one up, clasping it between his teeth. “Start moving,” he says. “Grinding. Get off on the pain.”

He keeps hitting you, over and over. Sometimes he takes a drag of the cigarette as he does so. Sometimes he clutches it between two fingers, a loose grip, the same way he was holding the glass earlier, while his other hand lands on your ass over and over. It’s casual, almost, the movements, the way he’s holding himself. He’s lounging in the chair, leaned back, legs spread; like this is nothing more than passive entertainment for him. Something typical.

There’s an intensity to it, too, though. To him. In his eyes, you think it is; a dim, dull glint but a glint nonetheless. An interest and a desire he doesn’t let onto. Something deep rooted and bordering on primal.

Your entire backside is stinging now, and your cunt is sensitive, both from the stimulation and the feeling of the material of his pants rubbing harshly against it. You don’t know how red you are now, don’t dare to look, but Yunho hits hard. Like he’s had practice—lots of it.

You wonder where from. Often with these men, it’s from other girls like you, who absorb the violence and perversions they can’t let show to their wives, their girlfriends; women they respect. Sometimes it’s from their own children. For some men, you’ve learned, the violence is indiscriminate.

Yunho seems too controlled for that. Too calm. He’s hurting you because he wants to, not because he needs to. Not because he’s lost his cool.

“You take it so well,” he says, almost cooing. “So brave. You’re well conditioned, aren’t you?”

Another. Another. He pauses for a moment, grabbing the bottom of your dress and lifting it up, over your stomach, over your tits until they’re exposed. He whistles lowly, grabbing a handful of your breast and squeezing. When he pulls away his nails have left indents in your skin. He lands a heavy handed smack on each of them then returns to your ass. It’s gone past stinging now, more of a burn, a scorching pain, the skin surely swollen. It’s so heavy and intense you’re hardly conscious of your pussy, of the fact that you’ve been grinding back and forth on his thigh the whole time. You look down; the fabric is glistening. Your face burns. Letting him do this is one thing; following his orders another. But you’re getting off on it. Leaking, dripping over it. This is the inescapable proof.

“I’d hit you just like this if you were mine,” he says. “Every time you ride me. Every time you’re in my lap. You’d always be red and sore in my house. S’what pretty little things like you deserve, isn’t it?”

You nod, still grinding, quickly getting too overwhelmed to speak. Yunho grins. “Whore,” he spits. “You love this, sick little thing.”

“S— sir,” you gasp, squirming, as another hit lands. You wonder if his hand hurts, but if it is he’s keeping it to himself. “Please.”

“Please what?” He asks.

You shake your head. You don’t even know what you’re crying for. He knows it.

“You’ve gone dumb, haven’t you?” He says. “Humping me while I hurt you, it’s gone to your head.”

“Please,” you repeat. “Yunho. Sir.”

“You don’t know what you want,” he says. “You don’t need to. You shouldn’t know what you want. Knowing what you want, saying what you want, that’s the sort of thing I’d have to beat out of you.”

“I wouldn’t,” you tell him. “I wouldn’t— wouldn’t say. Wouldn’t want.”

“Told you you’re a smart girl, huh? Take another puff. Open your mouth.”

He pushes the cigarette in; this time he holds it there, firm, until you breathe it in. You don’t splutter as much this time. He watches you impassively, but the corners of his lips quirk. “Feels good, huh?” He murmurs, taking the cigarette back and taking another puff. “Easy to get addicted to.”

“Are you? Addicted?”

“I wonder the same,” he says. “But I’ll die young anyway.”

The hits have stopped now, but you’re still moving, too well-trained to do anything but. Yunho digs his fingers into your ass, the pained sensitive skin there, then wraps his arm around your waist. His grip is firm, like he’s holding you in place. There’s more force to it than there was before.

He takes one last, long puff, then pushes the butt into your chest. You jolt, crying out, thrashing slightly but his grip only tightens. His gaze is fixed on your chest, on the cigarette pressed against your skin; only once you’ve stopped struggling, cries fading into quiet whimpers, does he pull it away. He puts it down on the table, next to the first, then takes another sip of the whiskey. You’re surprised he’s not tipsy now, knowing how strong it is, but if anything he looks more steady and in control than he did when you got here.

“You sound pretty when you’re hurting,” he says. “Melodic. Like you’re singing.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Both of his hands are on your hips now. For a moment he just looks at you. You fight the instinct to squirm or shrink under his gaze.

When he speaks, his voice is as soft as it’s ever been. Almost sincere. “I could get you out of here,” he says. “I’d pay for you. Handsomely.”

He’s not the first to offer, but Isaiah wouldn’t allow it. He doesn’t look surprised to hear it. “I can be persuasive,” Yunho says. “You don’t belong here.”

“I—”

“Don’t say no,” he cuts you off. “Think about it. We have time. Isaiah will tire of you.”

“I know.”

“Next time I see you, wear something innocent,” he says. “Something white. Linen. Like a church girl. Same shoes.”

His hands pull away, and he stands up. You realise now just how large he is, how he dwarfs you, how easily he could overpower you—could overpower Isaiah.

“Are you leaving?” You ask, surprised. “You haven’t even fucked me.”

“The first time I fuck you, you’ll belong to me. Today I just wanted to hurt you a bit.”

“Didn’t you pay a lot of money?”

“I have plenty,” he says. “I didn’t pay to fuck you. I paid to see if I might want to, and I do.”

“Is this what you always do? When you see girls like me? Appraise them?”

“Sometimes,” he says. “Usually I hurt them worse. I like to leave a mark. But you’re fragile. You’re soft. I know you can take it, you proved yourself to me, but when I really hurt you, I want to do it in the right way.”

“What way is that?”

“In my house,” he replies. “Under my care. At my feet.”

You don’t know what to say; he doesn’t seem to expect you to. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead and cupping your cunt. His hand is warm, hot even, perhaps from having impacted your ass over and over again. “Be a good girl,” he whispers. “I’ll be back for you.”

He shrugs on his jacket and walks out without another glance at you. Your panties are in his pocket.

Pulling off the heels, you take your phone out of your coat. Isaiah is asking how it went. He won’t be happy to hear Yunho hadn’t fucked you. He likes it when you keep them there, when you keep their interest, convincing them to drop extra cash for additional services. You don’t think you could have convinced Yunho.

I’ll be back for you, he’d said. You don’t think you believe him.

The scoff that leaves him is the first sound he has made in an hour, pupils dilated and his tongue constantly swiping over his lips to catch his drool. Flitting constantly over his screen, he analyzes every detail of your posts, your highlights, everything. Knowledge of your desperation, your constant plea for his attention, should have made the raunchiness of your photos less surprising. Although he knows all these things, he can’t help but rove his eyes over your cleavage or the way you pose to show off your curves. Virgin, his ass. You could act as innocent as you wanted, but he knows how much of a whore you become under him. 

Anyone else had to be blind or downright stupid, because he can see you for what you truly are. The short skirts, the lacy lingerie you conveniently always wear under your clothes. There’s no way you didn’t want him to fuck you. There was no fucking way your idea of spending time with him was to only go on enchanting, angelic little dates with him. 

The thought that you had played Wonwoo like a fiddle made the veins under his skin scorching hot. He had to stop, yet that anger did not cease; it only had him tenting his pants with a raging boner. Sticky, wet and red at the tip is the best way to describe his dick right now. A groan leaves him, covered by an exhale of breath as his hands find their way under the waistband that restricted him from falling into the pit of his own sins. 

At the first touch of his sensitive length under his boxers elicits a hiss from him. Before he could overthink his actions, he gathered saliva in his mouth, the string of spit dropping into his palm. The split second he drops his phone to tuck his waistband under his balls is the moment he realizes how deep a hole he dug himself into. There was no going back now, too awake to go to bed, too aware to ignore the gnawing discernment in his stomach. 

Before he could blink, his free hand was scrambling to screenshot your Instagram story. The way his eyes flit from your tits to the lace panties peeking between your thighs. What a fucking tease, Wonwoo thinks. The memories of sinking into your sloppy pussy evoked a terse inhale, then a whisper of your name. The weight of his cock in his palm was heavy, warm as he tried to recall the slick juices your pussy dripping onto his balls. Adrenaline pulses through him, because no matter how much you aggravate him, you still manage to get him rock hard.  

Only God knows what happens here. 

… 

Aside from the bass pounding in Wonwoo’s eardrums, the sound of his two friends snickering beside him felt like nails scraping against a chalkboard. Three pairs of eyes are trained on you, but you only have your attention on one person. His jaw tenses, teeth grinding as the malice stabbed him repeatedly through aching pulses at the back of his neck. Before he could break the staring contest, you had already scurried off to god knows where. Not that he cared, if anything, he was fucking relieved. 

Wonwoo didn’t want to have to see you anywhere. It was already bad enough that you were haunting him through your Instagram posts. The sight of you in a mini skirt and silk polka dot halter top was burned into his brain. Incapable of avoiding the images that flashed before his closed eyes before bed was torture. 

There were two sides of him, splitting his psyche into pieces. One part wanted to choke you out, while the other wanted nothing but to see how easy it would be to fuck you in that stupid mini skirt. 

“Not gonna go and save your girl?” Mingyu mutters beside him. 

Wonwoo wanted to slap the smirk right off his face; instead, he grunted and shook his head. 

“No, and she's not my girl,” Wonwoo replies curtly, his red solo cup creasing under the tense muscles in his palm. 

Mingyu chortles at that, rolling his eyes before patting Wonwoo's shoulder hard. 

“Suit yourself, man. But I came here to get laid. Let’s see how desperate your little fan is.” Mingyu’s eyes glint; the grin on his face despicable. 

There was an ugly, putrid churn in the pit of Wonwoo’s stomach. He plays off his best friend’s words as a joke. Stiff as a reed, he forces a laugh. 

“Go ahead. Find out for yourself if she's willing to play.”

Wonwoo watches his douche bag of a friend seek you out. With feet planted to the ground, he couldn’t bring himself to stop Mingyu. 

… 

The urgent knock at his door disturbs his train of thought.

 He left that party an hour ago. The mental image of Mingyu getting a taste of what he himself had made his blood pressure spike. The cold glass of water burned his fingertips despite the temporary relief it gave him, washing away the scorching heat along his throat. There’s a bitter taste in his mouth as he imagines his best friend getting to you, pulling you close. 

All he did was fuck you once, twice, whatever. Semantics. Yet it only took two times to get him absolutely deep into a cognitive dissonance centred around you. The willowed line between abhorrence and fixation was sending him into a state of mania. 

The resounding echo of the constant knocking on his door was starting to agitate him. He was already wrung so tight he thought he was about to burst. Glass clinks against the coffee table as he stands to answer whoever thought it was a good idea to be disturbing him this late into the night. 

“What the fuck do you wa—,” the sentence dies in his throat. 

There you stood, cheeks flushed, long lashes brushing against your cheeks. The strap of your lace tank top slips down as his gaze fans down from your face to your body. It was like he was being tested, yet the temptation was too strong to ignore. Sounds of your heavy breathing filled the hallway of his apartment. He doesn’t even want to begin to ponder how you got his address, but he can’t judge you when he did the same thing only a few weeks ago. 

Glancing at each end of the hallway, Wonwoo pulls you in before anyone can discover that you were here. The door slams shut, pushing you against it before he has a second to think his actions through. A smirk immediately appears on his face as he examines your debauched appearance, your tiny skirt barely covering your ass and your tits pressed against his chest. You could never stay away for too long; he never doubted that. 

“Now look who's coming back for more,” Wonwoo mutters, his breath fanning over your face. 

A whimper leaves you when his hand wraps around your neck, pushing you impossibly further against the door. Soft lips brush against your ear as he leans into you. The heat radiating off your body, the sweet scent of your floral perfume, was suffocating him just as his hand was undoing onto you. 

“Little bunny got herself caught in a trap, huh?” Wonwoo snickers, his bulge brushing against your stomach. 

You stood there in silence, eyes rolling back when his fingers would give small squeezes to the sides of your neck. He could sniff the desperation on you, just the way he liked you. Begging for his attention. 

“W—Wonwoo… please. I feel so warm, and it hurts,” you whine softly. God, he practically revolted at the sound of your voice. 

“Oh? You’re hurting?” The deep timbre in his voice causes your knees to buckle. 

A singular nod is all you can do to answer back.  Before he could think, his strong arm wrapped around your waist, keeping you from fawning onto the floor. Smaller fingers wrap around his biceps, nails digging into his skin. He didn’t mind it at all; if anything, it invigorated him. 

“C’mon baby, let's get you on the bed,” he mutters. 

Your arms wrap around his neck as he grabs your ass under your skirt, palming the fat there as he lifts you into his arms. Wonwoo grunts against your ear, unable to resist squeezing you and spreading your asscheeks in his palms. 

“You’re heating up like crazy. What the fuck did you take at that party?” He whispers in your ear. 

The palms of your hands curl into his shirt, pushing your chest against his as you moan in his ear. It was hard to focus when the sensations of his groping were getting to your head. 

“Mingyu gave me a drink… it was after you left. I had a sip, then I started feeling dizzy and so hot. I didn’t mean to come here. I'm sorry. I didn’t want to stay there… and you’re just across the street.” 

Your spiel on what had happened after Wonwoo went home urged him to grip your ass harder. Despite your state, he doesn’t leave room for pleasantries, throwing you onto the bed. Leave it up to an ass like Mingyu to slip you an aphrodisiac. 

“First of all, you’re an idiot for drinking anything from Mingyu. Should’ve known not to go and play around. Now look at you. Begging me to help you.” 

Wonwoo grunts again, shoving your panties to the side, revelling in the way the damp fabric soaks the pads of his fingers. You were sopping wet, just how he liked you. His thumb slides between your slick folds, the sounds of your arousal music to his ears. 

“Mnghh… Wonwoo, please.” You plead with him, hips bucking off the mattress, skirt hiked up around your waist. “Take it off. It's sticky, and it’s bothering me.” 

The sound of your moans fuels the fire within him, his hands tugging your skirt and panties in one go. You were already peeling off your tank top, leaving your body bare for him to play with as he pleases. 

A second barely passes, your fingers curling around the collar of his shirt to pull him into a kiss. Wonwoo almost forgot the softness of your lips, plump, wet, and always wanting him. His tongue slips past to tangle with yours. The palms of his hands glide down your soft thighs, squeezing them before wrapping around his waist. Plush cotton from his sweatpants brushes against your pussy, staining them with a dark patch of sticky arousal.

“Fuck, what a desperate thing you are.” Wonwoo groans against your lips, hands running up your thighs to your ass. He squeezes it appreciatively before flipping you abruptly onto your stomach. 

Hips in the air, you cant your ass back and forth, head turned over your shoulder to entice him further. He could barely recognize your guise. Wonwoo’s never seen you look so conscientious of your desires. A part of him was completely irate, yet the other was yearning to be inside you again. 

A sharp spank echoes in his room, his handprint burnt into the soft skin of your ass. The look of your pussy from behind almost had him drooling, spitting onto the hot and slick skin to show you how much more dominant he can be. 

“Wonwoo, I wanna get fucked so bad. Haven’t had your cock in so long.” You mewled. 

Wonwoo spanks you again in retaliation. His palms grab your ass cheeks to spread them apart, inspecting both of your tight little holes. All for him. Like you even had a choice, he thinks as he smirks to himself while you're too busy moaning into his pillow. 

“Never seen you so needy before. Whatever Mingyu gave you was strong.” Wonwoo gripes, spanking you till your ass was burning from his touch. 

He can see how impatient you're getting, pushing your ass back onto him in an attempt to get him to fuck you. Whatever self-control he had at the beginning of the meeting with you has been thrown out the window. Now, he can’t go a day without recalling how deliciously tight you always feel around him. 

There’s a moment where you relax, hearing him shuffle behind you as he slips his clothes off. Your eyes travel back over your shoulder again as Wonwoo towers over your shivering body.

“Gonna fuck me now…?” You ask, pouting as his hand comes back to your hips, adjusting the angle of your body. 

Wonwoo nods. There’s no tenderness to his touch, nor in the look in his eyes. He’s fueled by pure lust and hunger as the tip of his dick slides between your ass cheeks. From your puckered rim to your searing hot slit. He teases you by repeating those motions, drawing whiny moans from your lips while he plays with you. 

“Mhm, gonna fuck you real good, baby,” Wonwoo mutters. 

Niceties were never a part of his personality, his cock bottoming out in one go as he slid himself into your wet cunt. Both of you moan at the same time, your back arching as Wonwoo snaps his hips forward. 

“Ahh— please.” You beg relentlessly. 

Wonwoo’s hand forces your face into the pillow as he continues to pound your sweet pussy just like you had begged for. Skin slaps against skin, his eyes zeroed in on the way your walls stretch to accommodate his girth. Your ass jiggling every time his hips press against you. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but the pride blooms in his chest when he sees how easily you submit. 

“Shit, you’re always so fucking tight.” He murmurs, slapping your ass again just to see the fat of your cheeks ripple. 

The grip in your hair finally relents, manoeuvring your body in the perfect position to watch you ride him. The naivety in your eyes is clouded by the arousal that overwhelms every inch of your skin, the drugs seeping into your mind. 

“You’re gonna ride my dick. Show me how good you can be.” Wonwoo demands. 

The tone of his voice urges you further; not wanting to disappoint him, you begin to bounce on his lap. 

“Just like that. Knew you had it in you.” Wonwoo praises you. The rarity of his compliments goads you into bouncing on him faster. 

In an attempt to find your rhythm, your fingers dig into his broad shoulders, grounding yourself as he stretches you out at a new angle. Wonwoo can feel how deep you’re taking him, his head falling back against the headboard as his eyes flit from your bouncing tits to the sheer pleasure painted all over your face. 

“God, your pussy is so fucking sloppy from my dick.” He grunts, noticing how your juices are tainting his thighs. 

“Just wanna bounce on your cock like a good girl.” You moan, speeding up. 

On the crest of your own orgasm, you try to get Wonwoo to cum inside you. Before you could even think of milking him into creaming your wet pussy, he pushes your back onto the mattress. As he climbs on top of you, he can't help but chuckle, observing the lewd expression on your face. You were drunk on his cock, which is exactly how he wanted you to be. Begging for him to fill you. 

Wonwoo doesn’t give you the satisfaction you crave, pulling out of your tight hole with a wet pop. Knees bracket you in as he jerks himself off while you pout under him. He’ll let you cum when he feels like it, but it won’t be tonight. For now, he’s more concerned with feeding his ego. Splatters of his white seed cover your tits moments later. 

“Get out before I come back from my shower.” He mutters, stalking off to his washroom. 

Left on the mattress to fend for yourself, you quickly wipe yourself off with a discarded shirt on the floor. By the time Wonwoo returns, you’re gone. What doesn’t seem to leave with you is that sharp stab in his gut. 

Only God can know what happens here. 

note: sorry this took so long! you can all thank @vapidlynn for this cuz she sent me inspo off twt lol ٩(｡•́‿•̀｡)۶. no special colours cuz im too lazy to go thru the html editor hehe.

The TV is blaring when he wakes up. It’s loud, obnoxiously so, hurting his head a little; the familiar rattle of the local news channel’s morning jingle and the laughter of the presenters.

He’s sure he remembers turning it off last night; a couple beers in, the tail end of an action movie he’s seen a hundred times droning on. He turned it off a little after it ended and trudged down the hall to bed, he’s certain; he remembers stumbling over the wires a little when he went to turn it off at the wall, slightly disoriented by the late night and the alcohol. You were asleep then, quiet and content on his bedroom floor.

You must have turned it back on after he went to bed; you have a habit of wandering around the apartment at night, fiddling with buttons and flicking switches until you get bored or tired and fall asleep where you’re stood. He doesn't love it, but the apartment is secure and you know not to do it in the bedroom when he’s sleeping, so it’s not a huge problem.

You certainly have more destructive habits than that, anyway.

He finds you under the table, when he finally gets up and trudges through to the kitchen; you’re crouching, partially concealed by the tablecloth, toes curled under your feet against the tiled floor.

He doesn’t know what you’re doing. He rarely does. But as long as you’re safe, and obeying him, that’s what matters.

“Get out from there,” he says. The words come out grumbled, his voice still rough, thick with sleep.

You crawl out slowly, begrudgingly, then stand up. He can tell you’re not happy about it, but you’re obeying nonetheless, and that’s enough for him.

Your shirt—his, actually—hangs loose around your body, a little grime seeping into the fabric.

Or it looks like grime, at least. When he looks a little closer he realises it’s actually blood.

He raises an accusing eyebrow, staring you down, and you shrink into yourself like you’ve been caught in the act. Which you have, pretty much.

“Baby,” he sighs. He reaches to grab a dirtied section of the shirt, holding it up to your eyeline where it’s unavoidable. “What did we talk about yesterday?”

“Change,” you answer quietly. “We have to change clothes when they’re dirty.”

He nods, humming. “That’s right. If you’re going to go around wearing shirts with blood on them then you’ll have to stop wearing clothes when you eat. Is that what you want?”

“No, Yu.”

“Arms up.”

You lift your arms obediently, staying still and silent as he slides the shirt up over your head and puts it down on the table. You’re bare now, only panties to protect your modesty, but that’s not something that really registers to either of you. Not with the states you’ve seen each other in—far, far worse than a little nudity.

“Sit down,” he says. “I’ll bring you breakfast.”

He turns off the TV first; it’s too loud this early in the morning, not to mention a waste of money to keep it running like that.

While he’s there, he slides his hand behind the TV stand and retrieves the key he keeps hidden underneath.

You watch him silently. You know what he’s doing—and you know how to be patient, too.

You’ll get what you need; you always do. Yunho has never once allowed you to go without.

The pantry is hidden behind a bookshelf you’ve never cared to browse—you have little use for books anyway. You watch as Yunho hauls it out of the way then slots the key into the lock.

It opens with a quiet click that makes your mouth water instinctively. You hear the fridge open then close, then a drawer, then he emerges again with a white tupperware in his hands.

Fuck. You can already smell it. The minute or so it takes for him to lock up and put everything back into place nearly has you jumping out of your seat.

“We’re running a little low,” Yunho tells you as he puts the box down on the table. “I’ll go out tonight. Stock up a little.”

The lid cracks open. The smell is the first thing to hit—it’s distinct, pungent, unmistakable once you know what it is. It still makes him a little queasy even now. You’re all but heart-eyed like he’s just offered you a gourmet dinner.

“Eat up,” he says. “Before it goes bad.”

You eat with your hands—despite his best efforts, you were never able to get the hang of cutlery, and you barely understood the logic of using it no matter how many times he explained it to you. It was just one of those times where he had to pick his battles, he’d realised; you eat well anyway, never leaving a drop, and that’s what matters.

“How is it?” He asks.

“Good,” you answer. “What is it?”

“Thigh.”

You nod, approving, and he bites back a laugh. “Good girl,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. You’re far too engrossed to hear it; if you do, you don’t reply.

You’re a woman of few words—that’s something he understood about you very early on. He doubts you used them at all before meeting him; when would you have? You were all alone out there, wherever you were; in the very few stories you have told him of your early life, you never once mentioned another person.

He supposes it makes sense; tracks with the complete waste of time it had been trying to find any record of you at all.

To the rest of the world, it seems, you just… don’t exist.

He intends to keep it that way.

“Done,” you announce. You push the box back to him, then push each of your fingers into your mouth, one by one, until they’re licked clean. There’s still some blood around your mouth and trailing down your chin; he sighs, lamenting silently to himself, knowing what he’s going to have to do.

“You’re dirty, sweetheart,” he says quietly. “You’re going to need a wash.”

Your head snaps up, eyes suddenly sharp, your lips set in a firm line. “No,” you growl. “No wash, Yunho.”

He tries to keep his voice level, but the defiance in your voice, in your eyes, has his hand twitching by his side. “You have to, baby, you’re filthy. I don’t like filthy girls, do I?”

It’s true—if it weren’t such an issue it’d almost be funny that someone like him, used to keeping things clean and tidy and very much set in his ways, would be so irrevocably bonded with someone who scarcely even understands why it’s necessary to wash in the first place.

He doesn’t blame you, of course; with the life you’ve had he knows he can’t expect any different. But it does cause problems sometimes.

“Baby,” he repeats. “Do I like filthy girls?”

You shake your head, deflating a little. One way he’s found to make you understand why it’s necessary to do or not do certain things is to frame them around him—Yunho doesn’t like that. Yunho likes this. You have to do it this way, because it makes Yunho happy.

Whatever works, he supposes, and he can’t deny he enjoys the way you’re almost religiously in need of his praise and approval. It’s a level of power he doesn’t quite know what to do with; he certainly wants to maintain it, though.

Other people would just abuse it, anyway.

“Let’s go wash up,” he says. “Then you’ll be nice and clean and I’ll be happy.”

“And reward?” You ask, hope evident in your voice.

He bites back a grin that’s a little more predatory than he can admit of himself. “Yeah, love,” he says. “Then reward.”

It’s as much as a reward for him—more, probably, if you were to ask anyone but you. But you’re not going to ask anyone else, so it doesn’t really matter.

He sets the bath running—it’s easier than trying to put you in the shower, he’s found—at the temperature you seem to hate the least. Not too warm, but not too cold. He doesn’t set it cold unless you’re being really, really bad. You stand hovering behind him while he prepares it; when he’s awake you tend to follow him around the house, not really certain what else to do with yourself. Even facing away from you, he feels the way you tense up when he sets the water running; you relax a little when you see him set it warm, though not entirely, and he bites down a laugh.

“Relax, bunny,” he murmurs. “You’ve been good. S’gonna be just how you like it.”

“Don’t like any of it,” you grumble. He rolls his eyes.

“Okay,” he says, turning off the taps. “In we get. Let’s get you nice and clean, wash this filth off you.”

You don’t fight him when he lifts you up and puts you into the tub; you only do it very occasionally these days, when you’re particularly agitated or bratty, but for the most part he’s weeded that particular instinct out of you. You know, now, not to fight Yunho; not while he’s the one who protects you from the world. Especially not while he can hit that hard.

You stay still, docile, silent as he cleans you up. He rewards you with your favourite fluffy towel, warmed on the radiator, wrapped around you once he dries you off. “All done,” he says. “I’ll get you a clean shirt.”

He slips another old, loose shirt over your head; it falls to your mid-thigh, and the fabric is soft and worn, the colour starting to fade. Then he puts you on your knees by the foot of the bed; grips your jaw between his fingers and yanks it upwards to meet his eyes. “I’m gonna give you your reward,” he says. “Tell me the rule.”

“No teeth,” you recite it, as you always do. “No biting. Only tongue.”

“And if you break that rule, what’ll happen?”

“Belt.”

He hums. He doesn’t particularly enjoy beating you; you don’t put up a fight, at least, not anymore, but your pained whimpers do very little for him. It’s purely a disciplinary measure, one of the few ways to keep you in line that actually deters you. He doesn’t do it often—usually you’re just over his knee and he’s using his hand, or a small brush sometimes—only when it’s something serious. And given your predilection for meat, he definitely views keeping your teeth off his dick as something serious.

“Open your mouth,” he orders, pulling his dick out from his sweats. It slides in easily past your lips and into the warmth. You make a face, wincing slightly, but he knows it’s not the intrusion that’s bothering you; rather the soap he forced into your mouth as he always does before he goes anywhere near it.

He knows exactly the sort of things that have been in that mouth, and it’s nothing he wants on his fingers or his lips or his heavy leaking cock.

You suckle at it eagerly, swirling your tongue around the tip in just the way he taught you; you’re whimpering slightly, the size overwhelming you, staring up at him with those wide, innocent eyes like you don’t even understand what's happening to you, a stray tear playing on your waterline.

Fuck, he shouldn’t be getting off on that. He shouldn’t fucking be doing any of this; you’re so naive, so inexperienced; you have no knowledge of the world beyond his apartment. You can barely string a sentence together; barely understand what he’s saying to you unless he dumbs it down.

You’re like a child. For all intents and purposes, you are one. The guilt and the shame sits heavy in his stomach as he pushes himself down into your throat.

“That’s it,” he groans. “You enjoy it, baby. Do I taste good?”

You make a humming noise, affirmative, tightening your lips around his shaft and he groans. “Shit.” You’re so fucking good at this when you can keep your damn teeth off of him. “Alright,” he says. “I’m gonna cum down your throat. Remember your manners and swallow it.”

It doesn’t take him long; he grabs the back of your head and pulls it towards him then starts to thrust, in and out, faster and harder until he’s fucking your throat and you’re gagging and spluttering around his shaft. Your sweet little hands are fisting at his shirt, curling the fabric around your fists like you’re holding on for dear life. He cums suddenly, quickly, directly into your throat. You probably couldn’t spit it up if you tried with how deep he is; still, though, he pats your head and praises you for swallowing it so sweetly. It’s a point of pride for him, honestly, how well he’s trained you up.

“Alright,” he says, tucking himself back into his sweats. “How you feeling?”

“Fine,” you mumble. You’re still staring up at him with those wide puppy eyes, the way that always gets him though he doubts you’re aware of that; you don’t seem to have any kind of pattern recognition, any understanding of cause and effect. He picks you up with his hands hooked under your arms and sits you down on the edge of the bed, then he crouches down to meet your eyes.

“You sleepy, baby?” He asks. You nod. “Alright, pet. You can sleep in my arms while I watch TV.”

He carries you through, your head tucked into the crook of his neck; by the time he puts you down you’re already snoring. He laughs slightly as he adjusts you so you’re cradled sideways in his lap, your face pressed tightly enough against his chest that your cheeks are squished. You look so cute when you sleep; so harmless.

Really, you look harmless all the time, unless you’re eating. But he’s hardly one to judge, he thinks, not anymore. He’s as inhuman as you are now.

He likes to get your food a few days in advance. He can’t stock up in bulk, unfortunately, because if the meat’s more than a week old it’ll make you sick, so he likes to go out every Friday for it.

It’s all procedural; clinical. He finds it, he brings it back, he cuts it and freezes and stores it. It’s as simple as that.

He gets no thrill from it; no pleasure. That fact is the sole thing that keeps him steady most days.

At just after eleven on Friday, he puts you to bed as he always does. On the nights he goes out, you sleep in your cage; it’s not a punishment, never has been, just a way to ensure you’re safe and contained while he’s gone. He’s tried to make it homely for you, with pillows and blankets and a couple of toys for you to play with; the little stuffed bear you like to pretend to pounce on and the toy car you push around and watch with wonder as the wheels spin against the floor. He’s never gone for too long, and by the time he comes back you’re almost always asleep.

Today’s kill is in two bags, as usual; they’re large, cooled, like the ones his mother would pack his picnics into when he was a child. He’s not particularly fond of cutting people up where they fall, but he knows he’d never be able to pull a body up the stairs without being caught; that’s why he tends to go for dark alleyways, empty buildings, wooded areas and the like—less people to stumble across him while he’s doing what he needs to do.

The gun is in his pocket, safety on, the silencer still wrapped around the barrel. He puts it away first, locked up in the safe, then puts the meat into the freezer and locks the door.

He’s pretty tired tonight. He’ll get the meat ready in the morning. He has to do it when he’s awake and alert and in the right frame of mind or the sight and the smell and the sound of the knife sinking into the muscle will make him retch.

You’re curled up and knocked out in the cage when he returns to the bedroom, your face tucked between your knees and your arms wrapped around your shins. He picks you up, careful not to wake you; you make a soft, quiet noise when he lifts you, somewhere between a whimper and a breath, but you don’t stir.

You sleep pressed against his chest, his face buried in your hair, breathing you in. He savours the nights like this, when you sleep together; your sleep schedule is so irregular that he rarely gets the opportunity to have you like this.

The last thing he’s conscious of is the sound of you murmuring his name against his chest, talking in your sleep.

The next few weeks pass normally enough. You eat well, as you usually do, and you listen to him when he gives you an instruction. He only has to spank you once, for making a fuss when he has to leave, and even that is just a few minutes with his bare hand, comparatively mild; he doesn’t even pull your panties down for it—just lifts up your shirt and slams his hand down until your skin is glowing red.

When he’s done, there’s a little wet patch on the crotch of your panties that he decides not to mention. He definitely notes it, though.

It’s on a Friday morning that things start to go downhill.

He wakes up to a missed call from his father—a bad start. He hardly talks to the man; hasn’t since he left for college, really. The only reason he still engages with him is that his mother is sick in the hospital and his dad is the only person who keeps him updated on it.

He presses the call button begrudgingly. The sound of his father’s voice makes him wince. “Yunho, hello.”

“Hi, dad,” Yunho says. He peers through the crack in his bedroom door, into the small expanse of hallway it reveals. He thought he’d heard you walking around when he was waking up, but when he got out of the shower you’d gone silent. He supposes you’ve fallen asleep somewhere. “What’s up?”

“Your mother is doing better,” his father says. “She’s walking again. Thought you’d like to know.”

“Oh, that’s good. Yeah. Thanks. Anything else?”

“Are you going to come to visit her?”

Yunho sighs, closing his eyes, massaging the bridge of his nose. “I told you,” he says. “I can’t right now.” He can’t leave you here—and he certainly can’t take you with him. God knows how you’d react, what you’d do; he’s not even certain you fully grasp the concept of anyone else existing but you and him.

“Why not?”

“I have a… I’m having issues with work. And I’m taking care of my friend’s kid.” A lie for several reasons. Yunho doesn’t have any friends.

“Well, bring the kid.”

“I can’t,” he says. “My friend is in the hospital, too. We need to be in the area if something happens.”

His dad doesn’t respond; just scoffs. The sound of the tone when he hangs up makes Yunho flinch, drawing his phone away from his ear. For fuck’s sake.

You’re on the couch, it turns out, only half asleep; Yunho wakes you with a hand on your shoulder and sits you up. “Come on,” he says. “Breakfast.”

“You were talking,” you say, following him through to the kitchen. “Why?”

“My dad called me,” he answers. “First time in months. I was talking to him.”

“Oh,” you nod, sitting yourself down, but there’s a measure of confusion on your face still like something’s not quite computing with you. “Are you my dad?”

You ask it so earnestly and innocently that it makes him sick. Not the question—the way his dick twitches in his pants in response to it. “What?” He shakes his head quickly, his face burning. “No. No, I’m not. Your dad is… your dad is the man that made you and helps you grow up.”

“You help me grow up.”

“Not when you were a child,” he says. “And I didn’t make you. I just look after you.”

“I don’t think I have a dad.”

“Do you have a mom?” He asks. “Like a dad, but a woman.”

You don’t reply; you just stare at him like you’re waiting for him to finish his sentence. He sighs. “A woman. You know what that means?”

“Me?” You ask uncertainly.

“That’s right,” he nods. “A woman has a hole, like you. A man has a dick, like me.”

“I didn’t have a mom,” you respond after a moment. “I had me.”

Yunho hums, processing what you’ve said; this is the most you’ve ever spoken about your life before he found you. There’s so much he wants to know about it; at the same time, though, he thinks he may be better off ignorant. He still doesn’t know what you are, really, why it is you need to eat what you eat, why other foods, other meats make you so sick and weak and grey. He can’t imagine any explanation for that that he wouldn’t regret finding out.

“Well, you have me now,” he says. “And I take care of you.”

“Dad.”

“No, not dad. Yunho.”

“Dad is a man that takes care of me,” you argue. You point at him. “Dad.”

“Not just takes care of you,” he says. “Dads don’t just take care of you, they make you as well. I didn’t make you.”

You frown, your hand falling; Yunho dares to think you look almost… crestfallen. He bites his lip. “Would you like to have had a dad, baby?”

“You,” you reply. “Have a dad that’s you.”

Oh Christ. He holds back a groan, willing himself to think of anything but his half-hard dick and the way that word sounds so soft and sweet and innocent on your tongue.

Well. Anything for his baby, right?

He tells himself over and over that that’s all it is; something to make you happy. “If you want to see me as your dad,” he says, “if you do see me as your dad. That’s okay.”

“I’d be a good…” You pause, frowning slightly. “If you’re dad, what am I?”

“A daughter, I suppose.”

“I’d be a good daughter.”

Yunho smiles. “I know you would.”

You eat quietly, not too messily; the meat he gives you this morning is mostly dried out, a few days in the freezer, so there’s no blood to drip down onto your shirt. When you’re done, you push the plate towards him with a whispered “thank you.”

He’s just about to head out when it happens. He doesn’t know why you decide to lie there, curled up on the floor in the middle of the hallway—he doesn’t even see you until it’s too late. His head is a mess, adrenaline already pumping as he readies himself for what he has to do; he’s rushing to grab his keys from one kitchen when he feels it. His shin presses up against something, something solid, and he’s falling before he can stop himself.

He hears the snap; feels the pain before he even realises what’s happened. When he looks down at his ankle, the break is obvious.

Fuck.

He groans; he tries to get up but the slightest weight on it has him stumbling back down again, hissing in pain, head spinning.

Okay. Shit. This is fine.

He’s set broken bones before; treated them. He did it all the time in college when he volunteered as a first aider. Nobody breaks bones like drunk college kids with someone to impress.

He hops over to the first aid kit, gathering what he needs, then sits down, his bad ankle resting on the chair in front of him. It doesn’t take too long to fix himself up; by the time he does you’ve woken up, wandering curiously into the kitchen; your eyes widen at the sight of him. “What happened?”

“I hurt my ankle,” he says simply. “I tripped over you. In the hall.”

“Oh.”

“How many times have I told you not to fall asleep where you’re in my way?”

You shrug slightly. You have the decency—the awareness, perhaps—to look a little uneasy.

“Well?” He prompts you.

“A few,” you say. “M’sorry.”

“You need to learn to listen,” he tells you. “I keep telling you things over and over and you don’t learn. You don’t obey.”

“Don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad,” he says. “But I won’t be able to go out tonight.”

“What?”

“I can’t put weight on this. I don’t have anything to lean on. I can’t hunt down and kill someone in this state, let alone bring a corpse back to the apartment.”

You blink. “But I need to eat.”

“I can’t do anything for you,” he says. “I can’t get out until this heals a bit. You still have the supplies in the freezer.”

“And then?” You press. “When I finish?”

“We’ll make do,” he says. He pauses briefly, grunting, then gives a low, dry laugh. “You consider this part of your punishment, for never fucking listening to me.”

Only part of it, of course, because you absolutely have a belting in your future once he’s able to stand up again, and by the look on your face he can tell you know that. He could probably do it now, albeit awkwardly, but if he’s going to take the belt to you he’s going to do it with his full strength. Perhaps the wait will do you some good; help the lesson sink in a little deeper.

He tries to ration the food; it lasts you longer than he thought it would, but you have to eat regularly or you start to get sick; grey skin and unsteady on your feet and crying in pain like you’ve been poisoned. He’s learned from experience that, once that sets in, it doesn’t take long for your condition to deteriorate even more.

One week later, he manages to put weight on his ankle again. Not as easily as he’d like, but he manages to jog awkwardly around the apartment.

And a good thing, too, because your food has officially ran out.

He was annoyingly close to making it on time. He has everything ready by the time he’s fit enough to hunt. Just a few hours and he’ll be fully stocked up and the rationing can stop and his baby will have everything she needs again.

It very nearly works. There’s a queasy feeling in his stomach even before he sees you that tells him that it hasn’t.

You’re on the floor when he comes out into the living room. Your skin is greyed, glistening with sweat, and you’re whimpering and clutching your stomach. Fuck. He’s too late.

He curses, rushing over to you, pulling you up and into his arms.

“Baby,” he says. He tries to keep his voice low, steady, even, but panic is setting in and it feels like his stomach is twisting into a tight, tangled knot. “Sweetheart, look at me. Look at me. Stay with me.”

Your eyes are half shut, drooping; he curses under his breath, shaking you, calling your name. Soft at first. Then panicked. Then stern; that’s the one that has you responding.

“Yunho,” you whine. “F-food, please.”

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, I can go and get you some.”

“No,” you cry. You’re shaking now, smaller and frailer in his arms than he’s ever seen you, and your skin is ice cold, somehow soaked in sweat and bone dry at the same time. “Need— now. Please. Gonna— gonna…”

“Now?” He repeats.

“Please,” you whisper. “Gonna die.”

He believes you. He looks around the room, searching for something he can use; his eyes land on the kitchen countertop. On the case of knives, locked up.

The realisation sets in like sickness. He knows what he has to do.

“How much do you need?” He asks.

“Not… not that much,” you say. “Just some.”

“Stay here.” He eases you down onto the floor then pushes himself up; the case doesn’t need a key to open, just a simple latch mechanism, even that too advanced for you to crack, so it doesn’t take long to get what he needs. He comes back to kneel by your side, eyes moving between you and the knife and his leg.

Your eyes are closed now, but you’re still awake for the most part, mumbling things he doesn’t understand. You do that sometimes; did it a lot at first before he taught you how to talk. He theorised you’d had your own little language where you were before.

He pulls up his pant leg to around his knee. He goes for the calf, the same leg as his bad ankle; he’s going to take a strip out of it, he decides, down the side, so there’s not too much of him missing and he can go back out and stock up tomorrow, once you’re in the clear. He’ll have to adjust his methods slightly, perhaps, but he’ll get it done. He doesn’t really have a choice.

He inhales, a slow, shaking breath, then lifts the knife to his calf and presses down. He can’t help but squeeze his eyes shut as the blade sinks into his skin.

He bandages it carefully, with the supplies he’s cultivated over years of injuries, usually from people fighting back, that he couldn’t take to a hospital. He admits, though, that this is the worst one yet. Scratches and scrapes and bites and, once, a chain of keys stabbed into his arm, that’s one thing; this is an entire chunk out of his leg. He feels dizzy and sick and the pain makes his eyes water, every movement sore, but there was no alternative. He couldn’t just let you starve. Couldn’t let you die.

A small section of it, just a piece, forced past your cold grey lips and into your mouth, was enough to have you conscious and aware again. He carries you to the table and sets down a plate for the rest.

You’re slower to eat it than you normally are, as if you’re savouring it, savouring the taste of him on your tongue; you stare at it in what looks like wonder when he puts it down onto your plate, poking at it with your finger; pressing down on it so the blood seeps out from where it had been held by the meat.

“Yunho,” you murmur, then smile. “My Yunho.”

“How do I taste?” He asks. His voice is quiet, weak, his head still spinning a little, but you hear it nonetheless.

“Good,” you say. “Thank you. Hurt?”

“Me?” He asks. You nod. “Yeah, it does. It’ll heal, though, it’ll just leave a nasty scar I think.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise,” he says. “You needed to eat.”

You swallow the last piece with a smile; blood drips down your chin and lands on your chest, on his shirt, seeping into the fabric. He helps you take the shirt off as he always does; lowers you carefully into the tub to clean you up.

Usually, he throws the shirts into the washing machine and cleans them before they can stain.

This time, though, he throws it into the trash.

He doesn’t want to look at it anymore.

You wake around the same time the next morning, the city still quiet, the traffic and the distant noise of the city just beginning to swell beyond your window.

Your clothes are on the desk, as always—a top and panties and a skirt that’s most likely short enough to expose you when you bend over. You go to the bathroom first, then pull them on, glancing at your phone that you’d left charging next to them on the desk. There’s nothing new, really; just a few posts Maya’s sent you on Instagram.

You’re not particularly interested in what’s on your phone right now, you realise as you scroll through them. Everything you’re interested in is already in the house.

You huff slightly, softly, just enough to feel the cold air brush across your lips. You’re not sure what to do. You don’t hear any of them outside your room; no footsteps in the hall, no voices from downstairs—just silence. A thin silence, unsure, like it doesn’t know how to sit or what to do with itself.

Maybe you’ll go downstairs. Yeah, you could do that. You’ll go downstairs, maybe get a drink, and watch some TV until they come down.

You wrap a blanket around your shoulder, one a thin, loose knit that’s practically see-through You’re not trying to hide yourself, really; it’s just cold air and instinct that has you tugging it over your chest.

San is there on the couch when you shuffle into the living room, already dressed, reading something on his phone and looking up when you walk in. Something in his expression seems to spark and soften at the same time.

“Morning, pretty,” he smiles. “Sleep well?”

“Yeah,” you answer. “Did you?”

“I slept great,” he says. He pauses, hesitating for a moment. For a second, maybe two, he just looks at you; silent, a little scrutinising, like there’s something he’s trying to gauge. Something he’s trying to understand. Then his face evens out, calms, like a mess of laundry now folded into neat piles, and his smile widens. “You know, though,” he continues, and his voice is lower than before. “I was bouncing off the walls a little bit.”

“The walls?” You giggle. The look on his face—something like seriousness wrapped in intention, like there’s something you’re missing that he’s waiting for you to understand—wipes the smile off your face. You swallow. Suddenly nothing seems funny. “Why?”

“The same reason I’m wondering why you’re on your feet.”

You blink. “What?”

He stands up, not suddenly nor aggressively, but just the movement makes you cower like he’s all but run at you. Maybe it’s the way his eyes have sharpened, or how his voice dipped as he spoke—the next small indicators, now impossible to ignore, that the game has begun.

Or maybe you’re just on edge, because you know it has.

“What did we tell you you’d be doing today?” He asks, voice level, even, but not quite light. “What did we tell you you’d be today?”

Oh. The memory of last night—of their hands, their words, their promises—hits you like something solid. Your reply comes soft, shaking, face heating up already. “A—a puppy, sir.”

“Then get down.”

It feels odd to be doing it so early, in here yet with only one of them. You don’t even feel fully awake yet—but San has given you an order. That’s what matters. You’re on your knees before the words have even settled in the air.

“Good,” San says. He takes a step towards you, then another, until he’s close enough to take your chin in his hand. “That’s a good puppy.”

You keep your eyes down, fixed on the floor, and it’s as hard as it’s ever been—San sounds, feels, so confident and dominant and in control that you want nothing more than to look up at him, to see him. See the way he stares you down, eyes narrowed, like you’re nothing and everything all at once.

And today—like you’re a pet. A puppy.

You’ve definitely thought about pet play before; fantasised, and you’d taken a few tentative steps in that direction with Maya. But even those steps were barely so—certainly nothing like this. This is already much, much deeper.

“You look troubled, pup,” San says gently. “Something on your mind? You can speak. Tell me what’s going on in that head.”

“Nothing sir,” you say. “There’s nothing on my mind.”

He hums like he doesn’t quite believe you. “Eyes up.”

His face, you find, is the same as his tone—gentle, calm, but stern and very much owner. He slots a thumb past your lips and lets it sit inside your mouth. “You shouldn’t be thinking about anything,” he tells you, voice firmer now. “Nothing except being good and following directions. That’s all puppies should care about. Is that what you were thinking about?”

“Kind of, sir.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Kind of?” He repeats.

You nod. “I was thinking… I was thinking that I like this.”

“Being a puppy?”

“Yes sir.”

“Well I suppose that’s good,” he smiles. “We want you to like it. I’d rather you weren’t thinking at all, but we’ll work on that. One day you’ll be able to switch your brain off on command.”

Your stomach swoops at the thought, the image, the fact that by now you have very little doubt that he’s telling the truth; your breath hitches, caught in your chest, and you see on his face him taking stock of each small response of your body to his words.

What you don’t do—pointedly so—is clench your thighs together. Because you’re not allowed to anymore. He notices, of course; he must see the way your thighs tense then start to move, like you’re about to press them together but stay stubbornly apart like you’re forcing yourself not to, and he makes a noise that sounds like satisfaction. “Good girl,” he praises. “There’s your control. You’re learning.”

You hear footsteps in the hall, getting closer, but you don’t dare take your eyes off of San. He doesn’t take his off of you, either. “Very good,” he says.

“I see we started early.”

Jongho. He sounds tired still, voice rough, but there’s a slight edge to it that betrays something else.

San chuckles and pulls his thumb halfway out of your mouth, far enough to smear your saliva over your bottom lip, tugging on it a little and seeming to enjoy the way your head moves with it without a choice. “I had to,” he says. “She came in looking like a lost puppy, poor little thing. She was practically begging someone to put her down.”

“And is she being good?”

“Wonderful,” San tells him. “Didn’t even hesitate when I told her to get down. I think we’re weeding that instinct out of her already. Starting to, at least.”

“Let’s hope so.”

Jongho emerges from behind you, coming to stand by San; he’s already dressed, too—comfy, casual, but still dressed. He frowns. His eyes narrow, honing in on your top half that’s still concealed by the blanket. “Is she covering herself?”

“Just a blanket,” San shrugs. “Harmless. You want it off her?”

“Is she cold?”

San looks at you expectantly. “Well, pup? Are you cold?”

“No sir,” you whisper.

“Off then,” Jongho says bluntly. You shrug the blanket off; it falls from around your shoulders, sliding down your back and landing on the floor around you. He tilts an eyebrow, expectant; warning. “Are you going to leave it there?” He asks, sharper now. “On the floor? You’re going to make a mess in our house?”

You falter, hesitating. He cuts you off before you can speak. “Pick it up,” he instructs, voice hardened at the edges. “You don’t make messes here.”

“Yes sir,” you mumble. You move to obey, reaching for it, but Jongho stops you before you can.

“Do dogs use their hands?” He asks.

You pause, turning to him, then shake your head. “No sir.”

“Then neither do you. Pick it up. Use your mouth.”

Your heart is pounding, heat blooming in your chest and neck as you lean down for it; you take the fabric between your teeth, biting down, then look back up at him like you’re silently asking for instruction. “You know what to do,” he says. “Dogs don’t walk, either, in case you’ve forgotten.”

You whine before you can help it; you half expect him to scold you for it, but he just breathes out a low laugh and nods towards the coffee table. “Go.”

So you go—you crawl, just as you’ve done before, under those same stern, watchful gazes, pulling the blanket between your teeth along the floor next to you, then pull it up onto the coffee table and drop it there.

“Good,” San says. “Turn around. Let’s have a look at you.”

They’re smiling now, you see when you obey, turning around on your hands and knees until you’re facing them; small, soft smiles that don’t quite reach their eyes. San clicks his fingers then points down to the floor in front of him. “Here. Come. I have something for you, my girl.”

You perk up, intrigued; if you really did have a tail you’re certain it would be wagging now. They watch, silent, smiling slightly, as you crawl towards them and settle on your knees with your back straight.

“Good posture,” Jongho murmurs.

“Good puppy,” San says. There’s another, newer quality to his voice now, and you know what it is. The same thing that, for you, is making everything seem fuzzy and warm and thrilling.

“Chin up,” San orders. He grasps it in his hand, held between his finger and his thumb, then tilts your head upwards a little more. “There’s my puppy,” he breathes. “Keep your head like this, sweetheart, don’t move it. Stay docile.”

He crouches down so he’s at your level and runs his finger lightly across your neck. Gentle, without pressure, from one side to the other, like he’s tracing the outline of where a collar would be.

Then he reaches into his pocket and actually does pull out a collar.

It’s white, leather, a few centimetres thick, with a small metal ring hanging from the front. You stare at it for a moment, unsure what to say—your face, though, seems to say everything. San’s lips twitch; a small, knowing smirk. “You like it?”

You nod. “Yes sir.”

“Good,” he says. “This is just a play collar, for when you’re a puppy and we need something to tug you around with. Once you’re officially ours you’ll get a real collar; something you can wear all the time. Something formal, a little more subtle so you can wear it out. But this is sweet too, isn’t it?”

“It is, sir. Can I wear it now?”

“Yes you can. Stay still, honey, I’ll get it on you.”

He fastens it around your neck, slotting two fingers between your skin and the leather while he tightens it. “You need room to breathe,” he tells you before you can ask. “If you wanna try breath play, that’s a conversation to have when you’re in your right mind. For now you’re breathing freely. How’s that feel, baby?”

“Feels good, sir.”

“Not too tight or too loose?”

“No sir.”

“Good girl. And how do you feel?”

You pause, still for a moment, trying to find the words—to know what they’d be if you could. It feels rather like they’re running away from you right now.

You feel… “Floaty,” you settle on. “And… and light.”

“There’s your subspace,” he smiles. “You love it there, don’t you?”

“Yes sir.”

“We love you there, too. So sweet and obedient. God, even looking at you like this it feels like you were meant to be a puppy. How’d you survive so long without an owner, baby? Without someone to look after you?”

Your face is burning, you feel it; flames twist in your gut and scorch you in just the way you need it. Your breathing stutters, catching in your throat. “Not— not easily, sir,” you whisper.

“I bet,” he hums. “Poor baby. It’s okay. We’re here now. We’re gonna do everything for you.”

You nod. “Thank you.”

“Okay,” Jongho says a moment later. “No more talking, That’s not puppy-like, is it, baby? You need to get used to being a pup, keeping quiet. Alright?”

You open your mouth to reply, purely instinctual, but stop yourself just in time. Jongho nods, satisfied. “That’s it.”

“Oh my.”

Seonghwa’s voice, soft but sudden, cutting through the silence unexpectedly, almost has you turning towards it. You stop yourself just in time, just as your head starts to move; San makes a noise of satisfaction that has something warm and comfortable swelling in your chest.

You feel Seonghwa’s presence behind you, approaching from the doorway; slow, relaxed footsteps, a soft sound against the floor. You want to look. You want to see him. Fuck, you want…

“I didn’t realise we’d have a puppy already,” he says. God, he’s right there, you feel it— “She’s a pretty one. Where’d you find her?”

He takes another step; then, finally, his hand comes to rest on your head, flat against your hair. It takes everything in you not to keen into his touch.

“She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?” Jongho says to him, but he’s still looking at you. “Seems like a show pup to me, all perfect and pretty. I hope she has the temperament to match.”

“She’s been very obedient so far,” San says. “But I think she needs more training. Her previous owners seem to have been a little hands off.”

“Well we can’t have that.” You hear the smile in Seonghwa’s voice; the laughter he’s barely holding back. Everything about this is over the top, is ridiculous—should be ridiculous, and yet it doesn’t feel ridiculous at all. It feels the opposite, actually—it feels right. Natural. Needed. You feel yourself sinking into it like quicksand you don’t want to free yourself from. “We’ll have to train her up, if her previous owners didn’t. A pretty thing like her deserves nothing less.”

His hand moves forwards, tracing the path of the collar on your neck then grabbing your chin. He doesn’t move you; he just holds it there. He pushes his thumb past your lips and lets it sit there, too.

You want to suck it, badly. Maybe chew on it. But you don’t.

“She’s trying so hard to be good right now,” San clicks his tongue. “Look at her. Poor little thing. Bet she wishes she could tell us how bad she needs it.”

“Shame puppies can’t talk,” Jongho says. “She’ll just have to bark and whine and whimper if she wants something, I guess.”

“You’re doing well,” Seonghwa says; you can tell just from the tone, even before the words sink in, that this is meant for you now. His voice has dipped some, quieter than before, lower; like a secret the two of you share. “You can suck, sweetheart.”

He pushes his thumb in further, down to the knuckle, and you suckle at it; tentatively, at first, then more keenly. It’s strangely relaxing; a little instinctual. He hums. “Eager. I like it.”

“Where’re the others?” Jongho asks. He hides it well, but you still hear the faint impatience in his voice. The excitement.

Seonghwa laughs. “Excited, huh? They’ll be along. For now, why don’t we get some breakfast?”

The way Jongho smiles makes you think it’s probably not pancakes waiting for you in the kitchen. Seonghwa pulls his hand from your lips then taps your jaw with two fingers. You manage not to whine at the loss in your mouth.

“Stay still,” Seonghwa murmurs. “Eyes down. Keep them there. No matter what we do.”

He’s pulled away completely now, no longer touching you; you don’t like it, really, you want him to touch you again, but what you want even more than that is to please him. To hear him call you a good puppy. Maybe you’ll even find out what their version of a treat will be.

So your eyes stay on the ground, firmly, almost stubbornly, as San steps forward then clips a leash to the ring on your collar.

Oh fuck. You’re not surprised, exactly, but shit. They genuinely have you on a fucking leash.

“Come on,” San says, then tugs at it just firmly enough to make you whimper. He heads towards the kitchen, Seonghwa and Jongho in tow, and you follow on all fours. The only sound is their footsteps, your hands and knees padding against the floor, and the sound of your heartbeat pounding between your ears.

They don’t point it out to you. They let you spot it on your own—the little pink bowl on the floor by the table.

It’s not meant for people. The word puppy in bold blue letters on the front only affirms it.

San nudes you forward with his foot where you’ve frozen mid-crawl. “Go on,” he croons. “Breakfast.”

It’s full, you realise as you approach it. It looks like—

“It’s cereal,” Seonghwa tells you. “We’re not giving you dog food.” There’s a layer of amusement in his voice.

“I’m sure we don’t have to tell you not to use your hands,” Jongho says.

No, you think. He doesn’t.

“If you do feel tempted, though,” San adds, “you should remember what happens to puppies who don’t behave. A rolled up newspaper should remind you of your role today. If it doesn’t, a few lashes of your leash against your thighs definitely will.”

You can’t help but wince at the thought, and he laughs. “Eat up. Good puppies obey the first time.”

You don’t think you’ve ever found the act of lowering your head down and taking a bite to be quite so daunting. It’s a little awkward like this, hard to hold yourself, but you manage.

They pay you no attention—none. They just… go about their morning. Sitting at the table. Talking in low voices you can’t quite make out. Then, when you finish, Jongho beckons you over with two fingers and a “here, girl.”

You crawl over to him—not far, but your bare shins on the cold tiles makes it feel a lot further—and settle on your knees. He scratches the back of your head, between your ears, and hums.

“Good girl,” he grunts. “I’m gonna finish my breakfast. Why don’t you curl up at my feet til I’m done, hm?”

He pushes you down, gently, a hand on the back of your neck nudging you towards the floor. “Down you go,” he murmurs.

Time, you realise, passes strangely at Jongho’s feet. You’re not sure how much elapses like that—curled up, your head resting on his slippers, cold tile pressed against your bare skin, eyes half closed. But it’s peaceful. You’re not too cold, either, despite your near nudity; maybe they’ve turned the heating up a little bit, or maybe it’s the fact that you’re already feeling, well, hot.

It might well be both.

Every now and then Jongho reaches down to pat your hair, or nudges you gently with his foot, like a little silent assurance that you aren’t forgotten. It’s nice—knowing that even when you’re being ignored, they’re still paying attention.

You get so comfy like that, so far away in your own head, that you don’t realise they’re done until you’re being pulled back up onto your knees by the leash.

“All fours,” he orders, and you obey without thinking. “Good.”

He tugs at the leash again, already walking away and you pad through to the living room by his side, Seonghwa and San following closely behind.

Your face heats up a little, being so exposed, feeling their eyes on you, but you hardly register it. All you register—all you have the capacity to register like this—are the individual steps you’re taking and your desperation to do a good job of it.

Wooyoung arrives in the living room just as you do, shuffling in from upstairs. Your head is bowed still, eyes cast downwards like a good puppy; you dare to raise them for a moment, just a moment, but it’s long enough to catch his reaction; he pauses briefly, eyes widening for a moment, lips parting in surprise then curling into something more intentional. Something sly.

You force your eyes back down as soon as he meets them. For a moment you worry that’s not enough—that you shouldn’t have dared to raise them in the first place, even subtly—but no one moves to correct you on it.

Perhaps you get a little leeway like this. You dare to hope so.

“Well, well,” Wooyoung says. “I wasn’t expecting the puppy this early.”

“She was desperate for it,” San says mildly. He nudges you with his foot, a soft kick to the back of your thigh. “Sit, pup.”

You obey easily, settling on your knees, staring resolutely at Wooyoung’s feet, snug inside dark slippers partially concealed by the hems of his black pyjama pants. You want to look at him, of course, see the approval you hope you’d find on his face, but you know better. You’ve chanced it enough already.

He rests his hand atop your head, ruffling your hair gently; this time you can’t help but keen into his touch. He laughs. “So cute,” he coos. “Little pup can’t help herself, huh? Needs to be touched. Eyes up.”

He looks soft. That’s your first, immediate thought; hair unstyled, a little messy, face bare, eyes gentle if still holding a little of the sharpness they always seem to with you.

“You’re a little lax today,” he hums, but he doesn’t sound scolding—just observational. “Looking up when you shouldn’t be. Chasing my touch, but that’s okay. Puppies get more leeway than regular subs, ‘cause they’re cute and they don’t know how to talk back. You go deeper into your subspace as a puppy, so you can’t think as clearly, can’t catch yourself like you usually would. You get the leniency to reflect that.”

He’s stroking you as he talks, soft, circular motions, just enough pressure to feel grounding; it makes it hard to digest his words as he speaks, but you manage to when you concentrate. He smiles—a kind, smug, knowing smile like he’s reading your mind exactly.

“You’re a good girl,” he murmurs. “Pretty. We’ll show you how to be a good puppy, too. Come.”

You follow him to the couch; the leash is gone, you realise, unclipped some time after they’d tugged you into the kitchen, but you must have missed it in the haze of your headspace. Still, you crawl obediently by Wooyoung’s feet as if you were still attached to it, until he sits himself down on the couch and points at the floor between his parted legs. “You can kneel here,” he says. “No pets on the furniture.”

The other three are already seated, following you with their eyes; San reaches across Wooyoung’s lap to ruffle your hair. “Good puppy,” he smiles, eyes in crescents. “You just sit there.”

Wooyoung’s legs are pressing against you, not tight, no pressure, just holding you where you are and keeping you straight. You could lean against him if you get tired, you think, without breaking position. You don’t want to break position. So that’s good.

Wooyoung runs a long finger over your head, following the parting of your hair, and hums. “Didn’t we get her some ears?” He asks. “Poor little pup doesn’t have any.”

“We did,” Jongho replies. He looks up from his phone, brows furrowing a little, then looks back down again. “We got her everything she needs.”

“Well, she needs ears,” Wooyoung says. “What kind of puppy doesn’t have ears? Or even a tail? Was it docked off at the breeder or something?”

San snorts. “As if we’d let them do that to her.”

“The stuff is in Seonghwa’s room,” Jongho adds.

Wooyoung hums. “Well, go and get it.”

“You go and get it.”

Wooyoung reaches around you to grab your chin, fingers digging into your cheeks, and yanks your head around to face Jongho. You squeak, half in surprise and half in pain; they ignore you. “Can’t you see I’m busy?” Wooyoung snaps. “I have a puppy to train. You go and get it.”

“I’ll go,” Seonghwa says. “You two, stop acting like children. We’ve our own little girl now.”

He leaves before the words can really settle, but your reaction is instant, instinctive. A sharp intake of breath, catching in your chest; a shudder that makes your whole body quake.

Jongho laughs lowly, knowingly. Wooyoung, his grip on your face released now, tugs on your hair hard enough to make your eyes water.

“Oh, you liked that, huh?” San’s smile has stretched into a grin now, all teeth. “She wants to be our little girl, doesn’t she?”

“Seems that way,” Jongho says. “She’d be a cute one, wouldn’t she?”

“She would,” Wooyoung hums. “All tiny and bratty and clingy. Suits her.”

“Maybe we’ll try it some time,” San says.

You’re only half following; your eyes are fixed on the empty doorway Seonghwa left through, the small expanse of hallway you can see through the opening. For a moment you heard his footsteps as he retreated, getting quieter and further away until they were gone too; you’re frowning, lips pushed out into a pout, you realise when San laughs, nudging your thigh with his foot. “Hwa will be back soon, puppy. Poor thing, you didn’t want him to leave, huh?”

You shake your head; just as you do, as if summoned by magic, Seonghwa appears again, and you straighten up instinctively, lifting your head, back arching some like you’re trying to show him how poised and proper and good you can be. He smiles, coming to stand in front of you and patting your head. “Here we go,” he says.

He’s holding a couple of things. First, a pair of floppy white ears, attached to a headband that he crouches down to clip into place in your hair. “Don’t want you losing ‘em,” he smiles.

The other is a pair of what looks like mittens, in the same colour as the ears. “Paw,” Seonghwa says. It takes you a moment to realise what he means; you hold out your hands, one at a time, and watch silently as he fastens the mittens around your hands and ties them at the wrists. “Puppies don’t use their hands,” he tells you. “This way you won’t have to remember not to.”

The last thing in his hands is a box. It’s small-ish, nondescript, and you can’t tell what’s in it; you look up at Seonghwa with pleading eyes, hoping it’ll sway him into telling you, but he just laughs. “That’s not gonna work today I’m afraid,” he says. “This is for later, if you’re good and if you want it. We’ve already given you, what, three gifts today? If I give you this now you’re gonna end up spoiled.”

“She’s gonna end up spoiled anyways, just look at her,” Wooyoung says. “The sweetest little puppy. I already want to give her whatever she wants.”

“It’s hard to resist,” San says. He’s standing now, next to Seonghwa, eyes raking over your bare, kneeling form, taking in the sight of you. He looks pleased. “Jongho, bring her bed over here.”

The words take a moment to settle; from the corner of your eye you watch as Jongho rises, walking across the room and picking up— oh. Of course.

That’s why they’d been so insistent that the thing you’d been lying on last night wasn’t a dog bed—because they were about to give you something that actually was.

Jongho puts it down in front of the couch, near to where you’d been kneeling. It’s a dark brown, soft looking, big enough to hold you if you curl up. Seonghwa nudges your attention back towards him with a hand on your chin. “Okay,” he says softly. “We’ve let you be curious for a bit. Let you get a good look at what’s going on. Now you listen. Eyes down.”

Your gaze falls, just as instructed; Seonghwa makes a noise of satisfaction that sits warm in your belly. “Good,” he says. “You remember. There’ll be no more wandering eyes today. We’ll keep you on track. Show me your panties.” He nudges your knees, pressed together, with his foot, humming when you realise what he wants you to do and part your legs accordingly. He crouches down for a better view of them, the black cotton and lace snug against your cunt. His hand wraps around your thigh and nudges your leg open a little bit further.

It doesn’t improve his view, already unimpeded; you think he just wanted to feel your body obeying him.

“Cute,” he smiles. “Are you wet? Nod or shake your head.”

Tentatively, you nod, though you’re all but certain. There’s no way you couldn’t be wet now, right?

“I’d like to check myself. Nod or shake your head.”

You nod again. Seonghwa exhales. His hand moves up your thigh, then two fingers press against your clothed cunt. You inhale, a sharp, sudden breath, and bite down a whimper.

Seonghwa’s touch feels like static, reaching you in every corner of your body; finds you in the smallest, darkest corners and crevices. You can tell he knows it. He presses down a little harder, the corners of his lips quirking in amusement, then pulls away, standing back up again. He lifts the two fingers that were pressed against your cunt and shows them to San.

“Look at that,” Seonghwa says. “Sheen. All the way through her panties. Leaking like a little faucet.”

“Good call having her wear panties, then,” San laughs. “She’d be dripping all over our floors.”

“You like it this much?” Wooyoung asks. His voice comes from behind you, landing on the back of your neck like a cold breath. “Being a pet. You’ve been waiting for it, haven’t you?”

Not consciously, you think. But you’re taken aback by how natural this feels. You make to respond, mouth opening; you catch yourself just in time, and a soft, throaty whine slips out from where you’d held the words back. Wooyoung coos.

“Eyes up.” Seonghwa’s hand is on your chin now, gripping it between two fingers, forcing your attention onto him where it had started to drift away. “Good puppy. Now. I’m going to give you some instructions, and you’re going to listen very, very carefully. Yeah?”

You nod, straightening up a little; Seonghwa smiles. “Good,” he says. “You’re going to curl up in your little dog bed here. You won’t speak, unless it’s to call a safeword. You’re going to be a good puppy. You won’t bother us. You’ll wait for us to put you to use, and you’ll be grateful for what you get. Go on now. Crawl.”

He smacks your ass as you start to obey, on the patch of skin where your skirt’s ridden up; you don’t react, determined to show them you can control yourself and focused on your mission of getting to the bed.

It’s soft, more padded than you thought it would be. You take a second to get yourself comfortable, finding a position that works and allows the bed to hold you in your entirety, then let your head rest on the raised side. When you look up, you can see Wooyoung and San, but they’re not looking at you. No one is looking at you.

You sigh softly, turning your head back to where it was lying comfortable before, facing outwards; you yawn, humming slightly, and without really thinking, you push two fingers past your lips and into your mouth.

You’re not even conscious of it until someone laughs.

“Is that her version of a chew toy?” You’re not sure where Hongjoong’s voice is coming from, and by now you’re too comfy to lift your head to look, but you hear the slight sleepiness, the soft amusement in his tone. “Her own fingers?”

Seonghwa is in front of you a second later, crouching down by your bed and yanking your fingers out of your mouth. He smacks your cheek, not too hard but certainly not gentle, clicking his tongue. “Bad dog,” he says. “You don’t decide what goes in your mouth. We do. Understand?”

You nod. Seonghwa smiles gently. “Good girl.”

He reaches to pat your head, ruffling your hair slightly, and then he’s gone.

You hear them telling; at some point, the voices of the others come into the mix, but you don’t fully digest what they’re saying. It’s not about you, though, you know that; while Yeosang gives a short, fond laugh when he walks in and sees you there before turning the conversation to something else, Yunho and Mingi say nothing at all. From this angle, you can’t be certain they even looked at you.

It’s surprisingly easy to just lie there, doing nothing, even with your subspace making you so needy for them; the same subspace that makes you hot and desperate, like this, is making you calm. Floaty. Fuzzy. You’re happy just lying curled up in the warmth of your little bed and think of nothing but obeying them.

You do wonder what their intention here is, though. You know the purpose, of course, to show you what it’s like to be a puppy, but you’re not certain why. Everything they do with you seems to have a reason—that first day, when they took you apart, it was to set the tone and the expectations for this relationship; the second day, when you were wrapped up in rope and spanked into total and complete submission, it was to teach you to surrender. To show you the freedom of losing control. Yesterday, when they had you strung out and denied all day, it was to teach you control itself. To teach you to obey.

You’re not sure what it is today.

They turn on the TV, a variety show none of them seem to be watching, but with nothing else to do you start to follow along. They’re speaking quickly, the hosts, a little faster than you’re used to or comfortable with in your second language, but it’s not too hard to keep up.

They’re playing a game; the group, rookies you haven’t heard of, are split into two and playing some odd sort of playground game. It’s neck and neck. The tiebreaker round is next.

Just as it’s about to start, the channel changes. Your head lifts off of the bed, only slightly, and a confused sound escapes your throat before you can help it.

A hand fists into your hair and pulls you upwards, far enough that you’re on your knees and staring right into San’s face.

He doesn’t look annoyed. He looks amused. “Were you watching that?” He asks.

You keep your mouth shut. The corner of his lips quirks on one side. “Poor thing,” he says. “You haven’t quite learned yet, have you? Puppies don’t know how to think. That’s why they need their owners to do it for them. But I think you were thinking, weren’t you, pup?”

Your gaze drops, cheeks flushing pink, a small measure of shame breaking through the haze. San laughs. “Don’t worry, baby,” he coos, “I know it’s hard. You’ve spent so long trying to be a person, haven’t you? It must be hard to turn it off. We’ll help you.”

He lets go of your hair and you fall back down, not expecting to suddenly be unsupported; you’re kneeling with your ass against your shins now, staring up at San with an empty expression.

Help you. What does that mean?

“We need to dumb her down a little,” San says. “A bone, how about that?”

“Do we have a bone?” Mingi asks.

“I think we do,” Seonghwa says. “More of a chew toy. We never got around to using it, when we had— yeah, I know where it is.”

“And the other thing?” Wooyoung asks.

“Later,” Seonghwa says. “She hasn’t earned it.”

You wonder what it is you haven’t earned yet, but you don’t have much time to dwell on it now, because Seonghwa is walking out of the room to go and get you a bone, a chew toy, and the thought fills you with excitement and curiosity. You wonder if it really will make you go down; make the thoughts and the coherence and all the human stuff happening in your head just turn off. If the act itself doesn’t, the praise you hope they’ll give you for chewing on it so nicely surely will.

Seonghwa returns with it in hand, still wrapped up in plastic; he pulls it out, discarding the wrapping on the table, then walks over to you. “Kneel,” he says. “Eyes up. Open your mouth.”

Your lips part obediently; Seonghwa shakes his head. “Wider.”

Once it’s wide enough, so wide that it’s starting to hurt your jaw, he slides the toy in and rests it on your bottom row of teeth. “Bite down,” he says. “Carefully, I don’t want your slobber on me. If your mouth touches my hand I’ll beat you.”

You close your mouth slowly, carefully; when you’re biting down hard enough he pulls his hand away, ruffling your hair a little. “Good girl,” he smiles. “Lie back down. We have some things to talk about today—no, not with you, don’t worry—so you’re going to lie there and be good while we do it. Just chew on your toy and entertain yourself.”

You sigh, curling up in your bed again, this time with the toy between your teeth. You start to bite down on it, hesitant, still getting used to the feel of it in your mouth and— oh. It squeaks.

It’s a quiet sound the first time you hear it, your bite weak enough to only just make it go off; you try again, biting down a little harder, and it comes louder now. Oh, that’s fun. You bite down faster this time, two bites in quick succession, and the squeaks are faster and shorter in tandem. You smile around the toy, biting down again; it’s wet now, drool beginning to soak into the plastic and drip down onto your bed, but you hardly notice. You’re having fun. Someone reaches down to scratch your head, gentle, and you keen into the touch a little bit. You don’t know how long they stay like that for, and it doesn’t even dawn on you to look up to see who it is. You’re focused on your toy. On the squeaks. On the oddly soothing feeling of soft plastic between your teeth.

You hear them speaking; hear their voices, low and serious, talking about work from the few words you care to make out—practice, stage, choreography. You hold the toy between your two mitten-clad hands, keeping it steady as you bite down harder. You wonder if the plastic would rip, if you did it hard enough. You wonder how tough it is—would it still squeak if it was ripped open? Maybe it would squeak even louder, actually, if it didn’t have the plastic muffling it.

That’s something to do.

You bite down as hard as you can, dragging your teeth across the plastic, trying to tear a hole somewhere. You manage to make one near the middle, where the plastic is thinner, and the squeak is louder, just like you’d thought.

“What are you doing?” You pause, looking up; Hongjoong is standing over you, peering down with an eyebrow raised. “Get up,” he says. “On your knees.”

You pull yourself up into position, staring up at him with the toy still held between your teeth. Hongjoong holds his hand out in front of your face. “Drop it.”

You do; it lands in his hand and he lifts it, moving it so the end is held between two fingers. “Covered in slobber,” he says. “Embarrassing. Is that a hole you’ve made in it?”

“A hole?” Yeosang appears suddenly by Hongjoong’s side, a slight smile catching on his lips. “She made a hole in it?”

“Right here,” Hongjoong says, pointing to it. “I think that was on purpose, don’t you? I don’t think a little puppy could do that by accident.”

“Definitely not,” Yeosang agrees. “I think the dog—” He pauses for a second, gaze flickering down towards you then back up, “—has some lessons to learn about respect.”

“She’s just a pup,” Wooyoung says from behind you. “It’s normal for them to break things. You were just playing, weren’t you honey?” He leans down, nuzzling his face into your hair and pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“She still needs to learn,” Hongjoong says, voice firm. “Look at me, dog. Eyes up.”

He doesn’t look angry, of course; just stern. His voice is quiet and firm and final.

“You do not break things. You do not tear holes in things. When we’re nice enough to give you something, you treat it with respect. Do you understand me?”

You nod. He doesn’t look impressed. “No,” he says, “we let you be a quiet little lap dog because we thought you could behave like one. But if you want to chew holes in things, you can act like the untrained stray you seem to think you are. So now, if we ask you a question, you’re going to bark. Understood?”

Jesus Christ. Your breath hitches, catching in your throat; Hongjoong is staring at you expectantly, waiting for you to respond, and you force out a quiet little yip that might be the most pathetic sound you’ve ever made.

Hongjoong looks delighted.

“Good dog,” he grins. “You’ve lost the privilege to play with toys, I’m afraid, so you’re going to come and sit with me. Any more misbehaviour and you’ll be whipped, understood?”

You bark again, a little louder this time; Hongjoong clicks his fingers, pointing to the floor next to him. “Come, girl.”

You crawl by his side as he returns to his seat on the other couch, next to Jongho; you feel Yeosang following behind you, hear his quiet footsteps against the floor, and when you settle kneeling by Hongjoong’s feet Yeosang sits down on the other side. Hongjoong puts the toy away somewhere out of your sight, then parts his legs. “Kneel in between them,” he says, pointing to the floor. “You’re going to learn to be respectful of your things. So instead of a chew toy, you’re going to keep my fingers in your mouth; maybe that’ll make you more considerate. I understand puppies can’t think as clearly as humans, but you knew better. You made a conscious choice to destroy that toy, so now you’re going to learn not to.”

He pushes two fingers into your mouth once you’re in position, pushing right to the back of your throat; you gag around them, but it’s more out of surprise at the intrusion than an actual inability to breathe, and when he pulls them out far enough to sit comfortably on your tongue you settle down. He pushes the side of your head gently with his hand, guiding it to rest against his thigh. “Good puppy,” he coos. “Suck on my fingers, sweetheart. We still have a few more things to discuss.”

His other hand is a firm presence on the back of your neck as the conversation starts up again, keeping you still, the feeling of his fingers pressing into your skin pushing you deeper into the haze. His grip is so firm, so assured; his control of you, of your body, so palpable you feel like you could reach out and touch it.

You can’t believe how easy it is with them. How little it takes to put you into subspace; to push you further into it and keep you there. How they can do it with barely more than a glance.

You float there for a while, content, until someone speaks.

“Are you enjoying this?”

You look up, blinking, meeting Hongjoong’s blank gaze. Um.

“I think you are,” he says. Let’s see how wet you are.”

He lays you flat over his lap, your ass in the air, like Wooyoung had done yesterday with your legs spread and your toes grazing against the floor. He runs two fingers up your inner thigh, slowly, steadily, easing closer and closer to your cunt. His touch is feather-light, a tickle that makes it hard to stay still and quiet.

“Such a good dog,” he murmurs. “I can see how hard you’re trying to stay still. Sensitive, hm?”

Finally he reaches your cunt; his fingers push through your folds, grazing across your hole and your clit, gathering your wetness in his hand. He hums. “Soaking,” he says. “Wet cunt on a wet dog. She just has no shame at all.”

“She can’t help it.” Another hand, a little larger, fingers thicker and rougher, settles on the back of your thigh, pressing slightly into the skin. Jongho. “She’s gone all the way down now, I think. Exactly how we wanted her.”

“I think she’s earned her reward,” Hongjoong says.

“I agree.”

You’re moved then; lifted from Hongjoong’s lap and placed back down on the floor, on your knees the way you’d been before. Hongjoong grabs your jaw, pushing his thumb into your mouth and using it to ease it open. “Show me your tongue,” he says. “And your throat. Gotta make sure.”

You must look confused, because Jongho, sat next to Hongjoong and peering down at you with equal intensity, huffs out a low laugh. “Sweet girl doesn’t get it, do you? Puppies need to be inspected all over. That includes the mouth. Anywhere that can take a finger or a dick needs to be checked.”

Oh, right. You let your mouth open a little more, jaw falling slack, something warm pulsing in your chest at the satisfied sound Hongjoong makes in response. He looks focused, brows furrowed slightly, finger pressing down on your tongue, then pushing to the back of your throat, then running across your bottom lip. “Very good,” he says. “Seonghwa, come here. Bring her tail.”

A tail. You perk up, back straightening some, and something tightens in your gut at the thought. Hongjoong smiles. “Eager, huh?” He says. “The tail matches your ears.” He reaches to tug at one of the ears gently, the clips it’s fastened to tugging at your hair slightly. “It’s fixed to a plug. Can you take a plug right now?”

You nod, barking quietly. You can definitely take a plug now; you haven’t eaten much, and you cleaned yourself out this morning as you always do. Hongjoong nods. “Good,” he says. “Lean over, then. Ass up.”

You feel the presence behind you, then your ass grazing against someone’s crotch. His hands comes to rest on your hips, steadying you, then push your skirt the rest of the way over your ass where it has already started to fall. “Easy,” comes a low murmur. Seonghwa’s hand moves down, the other locked in place to hold you still, and slowly starts to tug down your panties. They’re pulled to your mid-thigh, far enough down to expose you but high enough that the fabric keeps your legs pressed together somewhat. The sound of a cap being undone, then liquid squeezed out, makes your breath catch in your throat.

You exhale, steadying yourself. It’s just a plug. You’ve taken things in your ass before.

It’s cold, both the lube and the what feels like steel of the plug; you gasp, flinching ever so slightly, but you manage not to react too much. Seonghwa’s hand stays firm on your hip while the other pushes the plug in past your rim; it’s a full feeling, intrusive, but not quite a stretch.

“There we go,” he hums, pushing it the rest of the way inside until your rim is curled around the base of it. He pats your ass, not quite a smack, but there’s a slight sting to it that makes you wonder if there’s still a sensitivity there from the spanking you took a couple of days ago. “Now she’s a puppy,” Seonghwa says. “Isn’t she cute?”

“Adorable,” San says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “Looks natural, doesn’t it? I wonder how it feels.”

“Full, probably,” Jongho says. “Kneel, puppy.”

You feel their eyes on you as you push yourself up onto your knees; your panties are still bunched around your thighs, the fabric slightly tangled, damp and sticky at the crotch, but you don’t try to move them. You know better than that.

You wonder what their plans are for you; if they have any at all, or if they just want to have you like this. Hongjoong sighs, adjusting himself, hips pushing outwards slightly, then points downwards. “Here, girl.”

You crawl over to him as gracefully as you can, settling on your knees by his side; he rests a hand on your head and runs his thumb over your scalp. “Eyes up,” he orders. “Good girl, you’re a natural. And so pretty with your little tail, aren’t you?”

His hand moves down to grip your jaw, fingers digging into your cheeks, then pulls away. You hear the smack before you feel it; the loud, sharp sound that rings out on its own for a few seconds before the pain hits.

It’s not overly hard. It doesn’t knock the wind out of you. But the sound and the sting and the way his expression doesn’t change—still cool, still passive, as though nothing had happened at all—makes something in your stomach swoop and your vision blur at the edges. You bite back a whine, afraid it will come out louder than you can get away with, but something in your face must betray you, because Hongjoong breathes out a laugh then hits you again. “Pathetic,” he says, but the softness of his tone makes the word land like praise. “Don’t give me those puppy eyes.”

“She probably feels a little lost right now,” Jongho says. “All floaty and fuzzy and hardly being touched. Wondering if we’re gonna put her to use or just string her out.”

“Must be hard not knowing,” Hongjoong says. “Colour, puppy? You can speak.”

“Green.” The word feels oddly unfamiliar on your tongue; the sound of your voice, small and soft, strangely foreign. You’ve already gotten accustomed to being quiet. To barking and whining and whimpering. Speaking feels… wrong.

“Good girl,” Hongjoong replies. “Then I’ll put you out of your misery. You’re not getting off today. Clear?”

You nod. You’d sort of figured.

“Good,” he says. “Then you can get your bed and bring it over here. Save the floor digging into your poor little knees. Go on.”

You nod, turning away from him; he sends you off with a smack to your ass as you start to crawl away. It makes the plug shift inside you, reminding you of the presence that had already started to slip your mind, and you whimper.

You feel them watching you as you move. When you reach the bed, for just a moment, you hesitate.

You can’t use your hands; they’re still snug in those soft mittens, and you doubt you’d be allowed to anyway. So how…?

“Teeth,” someone says. “Come on. You’ve seen puppies pick things up, haven’t you?”

You have. It’s not as easy to pick up as your bone was, of course (rest in peace to that poor piece of plastic), but you manage to tug it along the floor as you crawl back over to Hongjoong. He takes it from you once you’re within reach, putting it down between where he and Jongho are seated, then taps it with his foot. “Down,” he says. “On your knees. Face Jongho.”

Jongho slips his fingers past your mouth just as Hongjoong had done, pulling your head to rest against his thigh; his fingers are splayed across the back of your head and neck, thumb rubbing soft circles into your skin, and you can’t help but sigh contentedly.

You’re so comfy. This is so easy. You’re right where you want to be.

Nothing much happens for the next while. You stay there, still and silent, as they go about their day; people come and go, to their rooms, Hongjoong and Mingi leaving for a while to get a hook recorded before they forget it, but you don’t move. Nor does Jongho. He takes his hand away from your head after a while, but his fingers stay in your mouth, resting atop your tongue.

You’re not really thinking about much. Time seems to slip by separate from you; independently, like you’re floating somewhere it can’t quite reach. You don’t fall asleep—but you’re not exactly awake, either. You’re just… there.

They feed you your lunch by hand, sandwiches cut up into small bites, then hold a bottle of water to your lips until you’ve downed at least half of it. Your plug comes out a little while later; you don’t want it to, of course, enjoying the feeling of fullness and the softness of your tale against your legs, but Yunho’s narrowed eyes and the threat of a whipping stops your whining before it can really start.

“You’ve had it in long enough,” he says. “I can easily go and get your leash. Do you need some lashes on your thighs with it to help the point sink in?”

You shake your head quickly, biting down on your lip as if to physically trap your protests in your throat. Yunho nods, humming, a noise halfway between amusement and satisfaction sounding out in the silence as he slowly eases the plug out of you.

“Good puppy,” he murmurs. “You’re going to start to come up now. Slowly. You’ve been down for a while, haven’t you?”

True to his words, you come down steadily, at your own pace. They don’t rush you; Jongho’s other hand returns to rest against your head where it had been before, caressing you slowly, his touch just heavy enough to feel grounding and stabilising as you come back to earth.

The paws are the first to come off, untied and pulled off of your hands so quietly you don’t even notice. Your ears are next. Your collar comes off only once you’ve been lifted off of your bed and settled by Jongho’s side.

“There we go,” he says. “Coming up, huh? In your own time, baby. You can speak whenever you want to.”

“Sir.” The word is quiet, mumbled, your face pressed into Jongho’s side, eyes half closed.

“I’m here,” he assures you. “You did well.”

His arm is wrapped around your shoulder, you realise, hand rubbing up and down your back. He’s slid it under your shirt so his skin is pressed directly against yours, and his hand is warm, the skin soft.

“It’s almost time for dinner,” he tells you. “Do you think you can eat?”

“Wanna stay here,” you respond. “Comfy.”

“You can eat here,” he says. “We’ll bring the food through, just this once.”

“Once?”

“Not really,” he says. “Usually we eat at the table. But I’m sure the others wouldn’t mind you eating in here when you want to. Especially when you’ve just been so good and sweet for us.”

Another hand, larger, comes to rest on your thigh, following the curve of it where it’s angled towards Jongho. “How’s the pup?” Mingi asks, his voice a low drawl.

“Still coming up, I think,” Jongho answers. “Not sure you still calling her pup is gonna help the process though.”

Mingi huff, snorting slightly. “That has nothing to do with the scene,” he says. “She looks like a little puppy all the time to me. Tiny and naughty and eager to please.”

“I suppose she does.”

“How’s your hole, honey?” It takes a second for you to register that Mingi is talking to you.

“Fine,” you respond. “Empty.”

He laughs. “I’ll bet. You take a plug well, don’t you? Good at having your ass full. You like it?”

“Like it,” you repeat. “Comfy.”

“I’m sure it is.”

They feed you your dinner, too, noodles in a light soup that Jongho balances in your lap while he feeds you small mouthfuls of it, praising you with each one. You’ve never been praised for something so unremarkable before.

You don’t do any more scenes that day, but the small, lingering pieces of the high and the peace and the calm fuzziness stay with you until nightfall.

San comes to check on you when you’re tucked in, just before you turn off the light. He’s in his pyjamas too, soft looking blue checkered ones, his glasses sitting on his nose and his feet snug in his navy blue slippers. He looks homely. Cozy. Like something you could hide away in.

He runs his hand up your body where it’s tucked beneath the blanket, from the bottom of your legs to your cheek; his hand lingers there for a second, cupping your face, and there’s nothing but softness in his eyes. “You did well today,” he says quietly.

“Thank you.”

He leans into you slightly, just a little, and for a moment you think he’s going to kiss you; where his lips would land is another question, of course, but something in his expression seems to speak to an intention along those lines.

But then he hesitates. Stops. Moves back again. The smile on his face is no less genuine even as he retreats.

He’s just starting to turn for the door when you speak, the words slipping past your lips before you can consider them.

“San,” you call quietly. “Stay?”

He pauses, smile fading and for one moment, ice cold, you think he’s going to say no and the illusion of care and fondness they’ve created for you over these past few days will shatter into tiny pathetic pieces. But then the smile comes back softer, gentler, and he nods, climbing into bed with you and pulling you into his arms. “Course,” he murmurs. “C’mere, puppy.”

His hold is strong and firm but not hard; it yields and gives where you want it to and holds you tight where you don’t. He, they, seem to do much the same.

“Why do you do this?” You ask, out of the blue. Sleepiness has always loosened your tongue a little. “Like, have a sub all together.”

“As opposed to what?” He asks.

You shrug. It feels like a trick question somehow, but he’s looking at you with nothing but patience. “One sub each, or hookups, or…girlfriends or something.”

He’s quiet for a moment; thoughtful. “Think of it like this,” he starts. “Everyone needs connection, right? And release. With our jobs we aren’t really able to meet those needs in a meaningful way; too busy for girlfriends, of course, and it can get messy as idols anyway. We had hookups, as well, but it didn’t do it for us.”

“Why not?”

“Because release on its own does nothing for us. It has to be both. There has to be connection, deep connection. We couldn’t get that from just sex. We were all feeling it but we weren’t sure what else to do other than, like, fuck each other, which, no.”

He makes a face, exaggerated and you giggle softly. He glances down at you with a small smile and adjusts you in his hold a little; now, held against his chest, you feel the low, calm vibrations of his voice as he speaks to you. “Then I just… started thinking about it. Saw someone online talking about their sub and it made me think. Not just about having a sub but about sharing with the others, too. We’d all tended to take dominant roles in sex, and when we were doing hookups we’d sometimes share a girl together, in twos or threes usually. Turns out we all wanted something deeper too, and we all get a lot of fulfilment from being in control. From taking care of someone, taking charge of them. Which led us here.”

“That makes sense,” you hum. “Do you think…do you still feel lacking anything, like you did before?”

He takes a second to think. “No,” he answers. “This feels right. In a job like ours your whole life is controlled; everything is decided for you. But with you, with this, we can have control. We can have responsibility and bear it. And by having it together we find our own bond with each other deepens. Hey, look at me.”

He suddenly shifts you, tilting your head upwards by the chin to meet his eyes. “Whatever happens, we’ll never take for granted this gift you’ve given us,” he says. “I want you to know that.”

“Gift?” You repeat. “What gift?”

“Your submission,” he responds. “Your surrender. Letting us have control when we usually have none. It’s not a small thing to us. Never would be.”

“Thank you.” It slips out without any thought; instinct rather than reply. It feels a little strange, to say it, not really certain what you’re thanking him for, but he hums like he knows exactly what you mean and pulls you closer.

You fall asleep that way, in his arms, wrapped in the shared silence.

told you it was coming back! thank you so much for waiting. i hadn’t anticipated how crazy this school year was going to be but im so glad to finally be able to continue this. i promise i will not make u wait that long again!!!

The Club has one rule that sits above all others.

What happens inside stays in. What happens outside stays out.

When you walk through those doors, when you pass your ID to the bouncer and slip through the gap between the heavy velvet curtains, your outside identity—reality—slips off like a robe, leaving you bare. Exposed.

Those are the rules. And it’s the only reason this works.

The wall between in and out, the barrier no one crosses—it makes you honest. To yourself, and to the people you come here to see.

There are eight of them, though rarely all at once—but you know that beyond your view they work in tandem on your upkeep. You don’t know much of who they are outside, nor do you want to, but in here you can read them like a book. In here the nine of you know each other inside out. And the honesty the Club demands both officially and instinctively means that, really, you know them far better than anyone on the outside ever could.

Walking out into the main area, set up like any typical bar, you scan the room for one of your ‘companions’, as the Club calls its patrons, but no one catches your eye. You know at least one of them is here tonight, they always are, so the anxiety that used to fill you when you couldn’t find them doesn’t come—but it’s certainly strange. Usually you’d quickly spot one of them somewhere around the bar.

For you they’re hard to miss, because they’ll be the only ones in the room with their eyes on you. You don’t tend to draw much attention, for the sole fact that unlike many of the others here, in communal spaces you are always fully clothed; you’re not particularly extroverted, and your companions don’t like to share.

Which is why you’re a bit confused that you’ve not been whisked away into a private room as you’d usually be by now. They’re here, of course they are, why the hell wouldn’t they be—but they’re not here, next to you, or sat at the bar beckoning you towards them like usual. You walk to the bar anyway, at ease in your routine but with an uncertainty that reminds you of your first few times at the Club. The bartender spots you and quickly slides a drink across the counter; she nods at you, confirming who it’s from, so you don’t need to take a sip to know it’s non-alcoholic. You’re not allowed to drink on Club days. If they smell alcohol on your breath you’ll be sent home. They don’t like you impaired.

Still alone at the bar, you down your drink, leg now tapping against the metal bar of the seats, dangerously close to anxious. Where are they? You try not to worry, not only because you know it’s stupid, but also because you’re not actually allowed to—over time they’ve worked you carefully enough to expect that of you, to expect you to follow their rules and their orders even as it pertains to your own thoughts and feelings, and you obey them to the letter. That’s why you come, after all. That’s why they keep you.

Just as you feel your resolve, your nerve, beginning to fracture, you hear it. Someone clears their throat behind you; a familiar sound, and you turn towards it. Relief floods you like a wave when you finally meet his eyes.

He’s dressed as he usually is; a loose shirt, rolled up to his elbows and pinned in place, unbuttoned down to the middle of his chest, necklaces, layered together, sitting shimmering against his skin. His hair is pushed back, loosely styled, and his eyes are as piercing as they always are.

From the very first time he met you, he’s looked at you like that—like he already knows everything about you. You were warned about it, by the older woman who’d taken you under her wing when you came to the Club for the first time. The captain, she’d called him—apparently that’s the name he preferred, until he deemed you worthy of something more personal.

It was over a month and half a dozen sessions before you heard the name Hongjoong for the first time.

You try not to get excited, to let your relief or anticipation show; you keep your head bowed, lips sealed—because you do nothing, not even speak, without permission.

He’s silent for a moment; he always is. You’re fairly certain he can tell if you’ve misbehaved since the last time he saw you just from watching the way you react to the sight of him.

“Did you worry, dear?” He asks, finally. “You may answer.”

“No, sir,” you reply, quietly; respectfully. “I did not.”

“Good,” he says, his tone approving. “Follow.”

He turns on his heel, nothing else said, and heads briskly towards the private rooms; he doesn’t wait for you, doesn’t look back to make sure you’re following—he knows you are. You always are.

Only once you pass through the doors leading to the hallway of rooms does he finally turn to face you again; ever the well-behaved companion, though, you keep your eyes fixed firmly on the floor until he curls a finger beneath your chin and gently pushes upwards. A silent order. Look at me.

“We wanted to see how you would react if no one came for you,” he says lowly. “To see if you would still follow the rules, or if you’d fail. If you’d worry.”

You swallow—you’re relieved, now, that you hadn’t allowed yourself to succumb to your nerves.

“But you did not,” he continues. “You were uncertain, but you did not worry. You remained just as well-behaved as you are with us. I’m proud of you.”

You allow yourself to smile, because they like that; they like it when you smile at them, and he offers a slightly softer smile in return.

“We’ll be in the private lounge today. All eight of us.”

Your eyes widen a little, instinctive, and you open your mouth to speak, but he answers your question before you can ask it. “Yes, all eight of us. We’re all here. Aren’t you lucky?” He smiles again, pushing open the door. “In you go.”

Your eyes are cast down as you walk in, just as they expect of you, until one of them commands you to look up. Wooyoung’s gaze is as piercing as it always is, but there’s a small smile on his lips as his eyes rake over you.

“You look lovely tonight, doll,” he says; a couple others make noises of agreement. All eight of your companions are on the couches now, and you can scarcely believe they’re all here, at once, for you.

You feel yourself starting to flush slightly, but you make sure not to look too embarrassed, because that’s not allowed either. You will not be ashamed of who you are—who they make of you. “Thank you, sir.”

“Kneel.”

You drop immediately, legs giving out before you’ve even registered the command—by now obedience is an instinct, and you feel a dash of pride at how well trained you are, how well conditioned. You hope they’re proud, too.

Another, Yeosang, stands without a word, walking towards a bar cart in the corner and pouring himself a drink. You watch him silently, and if your companions would rather you kept your gaze ahead, or on the ground, they don’t say it. A little leeway tonight, it seems; a slight reward. For what, you’re not yet certain.

He sits back down, taking a few sips before placing his glass carefully on the ground in front of him. He curls a long finger inwards, beckoning you towards him; you obey, careful to keep your eyes on him as you crawl. You settle back onto your knees and he rewards you with a pat on the head, smoothing his hand across your hair. “How are you?” He asks. “Does it feel right?”

They ask that every time, though your answer is unchanging— “I’m well, sir. It does.”

“Very well,” he says. “Shall we begin?”

It’s not a question for you.

Trying not to look too eager, you merely smile, dropping your gaze to the floor in silent permission. Before long a hand grabs your hair and pulls you to kneel elsewhere with what could almost be misconstrued as gentleness—could be, were it not for his other hand drawing back and slapping you square across the face.

You barely react, eyes still cast downwards, incurious—you don’t need to look to know who this is. You know his shoes, you know his scent, and the way he pulls you upwards to plant a small kiss on your stinging cheek before shoving you back down and slapping it again—that’s his ritual. Your ritual. Yunho.

“Pained little thing,” he croons softly, slapping you again. “You need this.”

“Doesn’t she just?” Another purrs, and oh, you love his voice. The deepest of those of your companions, a few words from Mingi whispered in your ear gets you hot like nothing else. You whine a bit, starting to squirm slightly but another slap quickly settles you.

“You’re going to have to relax,” Yunho says mildly, but his tone is a little sterner now, still cradling your face in his hands. “I won’t play with a bitch who can’t sit still when she’s ordered to.”

He lets go of your face and, having already dropped considerably into your headspace, you nearly fall to the floor without his hold—but you steady yourself, luckily, and instead bow your head in apology, because you don’t know if they want you to talk.

By the displeased look on their faces, it doesn’t seem to matter—whether you speak to them or stay mute, it looks like your fate has been decided now.

No more leeway, you guess.

They share a look among each other, before the man next to Hongjoong—Seonghwa—stands from the couch. He stares down at you for a second and you hear him sigh, as though this is all just some great inconvenience, before his foot collides with your chest and forces your back to the floor. He walks off as another man takes his place on the couch and pulls you back up to your knees by the hair; San’s expression is bored, indifferent, but his eyes are interested. Excited.

“Seems someone’s not impressed with you tonight, petal,” he murmurs, glancing in Seonghwa’s direction then back to you. “Changes his mind quickly, doesn’t he?”

“It’s my fault,” you whisper softly. He raises an eyebrow. “I’m not as settled as I should be, sir.”

He hums, nodding thoughtfully. “You need to go under a bit?”

You do. God, you do. You’ve been wound so tight lately, you need nothing more than to be broken; to be pulled apart the way only they know how to. You make a noise halfway between a hum and a whimper.

Hongjoong’s voice cuts through the ensuing silence like a shard of glass. “Answer him.” The firmness makes you flush a little in embarrassment, fear, as much as you can get away with. You don’t know what’s wrong with you tonight, but you know you’re failing—you’re slipping. Faltering. They all know it.

“I’m sorry, sir,” you say. “Yes, I need to go under. Please.”

“Very well,” he replies. He turns to share a look with Wooyoung, who nods; when his gaze returns to you, he seems resolved. “Stand up and strip, then walk over to the bench.”

You knew this was coming, but you feel your stomach drop all the same. The bench is the deceptively mild-sounding name for the imposing, leather-padded device in the corner of the room, adorned with straps and belts to hold you in place while they do, well, whatever they want. But the bent-over, all-fours position it keeps you in means it’s usually used for punishment.

It’s a familiar routine by now; your clothes come off quickly, without much thought, you being far beyond the point of feeling modest or embarrassed of your nakedness around them, and you quickly situate yourself on the padded leather, staying still and silent as they approach you. It’s Yunho and Seonghwa—you can tell by their hands; their scents; the way they touch you. You don’t know if they themselves are even aware, but they each have a slightly different way of doing it; a pattern and feeling of claiming you that differs ever so slightly between each of them. There’s more strength behind Yunho’s touch; more worship behind Seonghwa’s. The only common denominator between them all is the one thing they all share with pride—their ownership of you.

Once you’re restrained, Yunho crouches down to whisper into your ear, his breath brushing cold against your skin. “How do you want to be spanked?” His voice is low, teetering on the verge of dangerous, but you know he’s not angry—allowing you to choose the item they beat you with is their version of a reward.

You don’t have to think about your answer for long. “The crop, sir.” You just love the way they wield it; the power behind each swing and the marks it leaves behind.

Yunho chuckles like he’d expected the answer; you imagine he did. “The crop it is,” he says. “Your safeword?”

“Jumbo,” you answer. “And the colour system.”

“Good girl,” he smiles. He cups your cheek for a second, allowing you to keen into his touch, before his hand drops, straightening up. “You’ll get ten from each of us,” he says. “You don’t need to count. Just feel it.”

You feel the effects before the first strike even lands; just the feeling of being strapped down, bent and immobilised on the bench as you have been so many times before—each time cared for, protected and guided by the eight men surrounding you—brings a familiarity and safety that instantly settles you. This is what you needed; this is where you belong. Held up and strapped down, no control of a single limb and not even holding your own weight— completely helpless.

You’ve missed this.

Being such an obedient, perfect pet, hardly ever needing punishment these days, it’s been so long since you’ve found yourself on this bench that you’d pretty much forgotten the large, full-length mirror that sits before you. It’s tall enough that you’ll be able to see the man behind you, but thin enough that you won’t know who’s coming next. All you’ll see is the man hurting you, and yourself, taking it all.

Yeosang is first. You’d expected that—he was the first club member you’d played with, and his strikes, though by no means soft, aren’t quite as hard or ruthless as some of the others. Yeosang prefers slow, methodical strokes spread over the whole of your ass and the tops of your thighs; easing you slowly and carefully into the pain to come. He catches your eye in the mirror, smiling softly at you before, without a word, the crop comes down.

You hadn’t even seen it in his hands, let alone seen him raise it—it’s only when it strikes against your naked flesh that you even remember what you’re doing here. You cry out, half from surprise and half from the, albeit still manageable, biting pain of the hit.

When you first started playing with them, you found the crop extremely difficult to take; something about it hurt more than even the belt, and you were rarely able to take more than a few strikes before you were tapping out. But you wanted to take more, and they knew you could, so they’d gradually taught you how to take it; how to relax, how to feel it properly, how to enjoy it as much as you fear it.

Now, as the second strike hits you just under the curve of your ass, you welcome the sting like an old friend.

The third and fourth come a little quicker, and though they hadn’t told you to be quiet, you instinctively bite your lip to hold in the noise. Yeosang notices quickly, frowning. “Don’t bite your lip,” he orders. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

The irony isn’t lost on either of you, but you obey silently. It’s a familiar, fundamental rule between you all—no one except us is allowed to hurt you. Not even you. You still remember the marks Seonghwa left the first time you’d broken it.

While the final six strikes come down, you feel yourself easing into his rhythm; the feeling of the crop, the sound of it cutting through the air is a constant you can cling to, that you can wrap yourself around and surrender to. By the time he finishes, rubbing your stinging ass soothingly as he hands the crop to Hongjoong, you know for certain this is exactly what you needed. The look in Hongjoong’s eyes as he surveys Yeosang’s marks tells you he knew it long before you did.

He hums, squeezing the flesh just hard enough to hurt, but you don’t squirm. You couldn’t, anyway. He drags the crop across your thighs, letting you feel it before he raises it up and brings it down without a word.

The first hit makes you gasp, and you barely have a second to take it in before the next two come down on each cheek.

He’d never admit it, but Hongjoong can be quite playful with you. He’s as strict as they come and never hesitates to punish you when you fall short, but there’s a gleam in his eye while he does it that gives him away. He likes the game; the suspense. He likes to toy with you and leave you guessing what’s next.

The rest of his hits come unexpectedly; in various areas of your ass and thighs and at random, differing intervals. Maybe it’s so you don’t tense up in anticipation, which could cause the strike to be more damaging than intended. Or maybe—just as likely—it’s to keep you on edge. In the dark. To affirm your total loss of control over your own body.

You’re more than used to his antics by now, but the final strike surprises you; it lands firmly on the soles of your feet, and it feels like the blade of a knife. You shriek, momentarily struggling against the restraints until a large hand, now gloved in the soft leather he favours when you haven’t earned his touch, comes to rest on your calf, grounding. You look up to meet Yunho’s eyes in the mirror, crop in hand. He raises an eyebrow. “Colour?” He asks. You know he’s concerned, but he doesn’t show it; what makes Yunho so good at this is his ability to appear completely and entirely emotionless. It’s one of the reasons he’s probably the one you fear most.

“Green,” you say after a moment, sniffling slightly. For a second he looks unsure, but you all know that this entire arrangement is built on trust; on good faith in each other to be honest and sincere in everything you do. You know he’d stop if you didn’t say green, and he knows you’d never say green unless you meant it—that’s why this works, after all. He regards you carefully for a moment before nodding and stepping back. His eyes are dark, focused on your ass as he raises the crop.

By the time you register the first strike, the second has followed, then the third. You knew this was coming; Yunho is brutal and relentless and, conversely, you in many ways have a deeper understanding of each other than you do with any of the others. You trust them all with your life, you’d do it blindly, but Yunho reads you in a way they just don’t. He doesn’t feel the need to go slow, or to check in on you between strikes, because there is no need. He knows exactly how far he can push you, and he knows when you’ve reached your limit even before you do.

The strikes are hard and fast as though he’s releasing all his anger and frustration onto you; a particularly hard strike makes you clench your thighs, and he notices straight away. “Don’t tense,” he barks. As soon as you obey, letting yourself go limp again, he continues.

By the time he’s handed the crop to Jongho, your face is soaked in tears and you feel yourself drooling onto the leather. By Mingi’s turn, the strikes feel more like a dull, distant sensation than the sharp, biting hits they’d once been. San and Seonghwa’s hits barely register; Wooyoung only has to hit you twice before you go completely and utterly numb.

You don’t realise you’ve been released from the bench and carefully placed on your knees until you feel the cool leather against your neck—your collar. The familiar feeling brings you home, cements your submission and wakes you from the haze without breaking it. You’re not dazed and numb like their hits had made you; nor are you tense and overthinking like you were before. They’ve manoeuvred you into the perfect headspace, and the feeling in your stomach of complete ownership is one you never want to leave.

The leash clips on effortlessly, and a finger curling under your chin forces you to meet Mingi’s eyes. His gaze is cool, verging on cold, but there’s something like fondness in the embers. “Are you ready to serve us now?” He asks. He tilts your head a little further upwards, making you strain your neck. You can practically feel the rush of power your helplessness sends through him.

“Yes, sir,” you say quietly.

“Louder,” he commands. “So we can all hear you.”

You shiver, moving to bite your lip but stopping yourself in time. “Yes, sir,” you say again, louder this time. “I’m ready to serve you.”

Mingi smiles, and it’d almost be cute were it not for the situation you’re in and the firm hand in your hair, pulling you towards the couch with the leash in hand. Your practiced crawl barely keeps up with him, and the impact of your burning ass on the carpet when he finally stops and shoves you back down to your knees makes you whimper.

Jongho is the next to touch you; he grabs your chin in firm hands, staring you down silently; analysing. His gaze could burn a hole through a metal wall, you think. The smile that follows could keep you warm through the harshest of winters.

It’s well-known you have some sort of feelings for them; as do they have feelings for you. It’s natural, you’re told, for feelings to arise in such intense, intimate, emotionally charged interactions. But you all know that those powerful, consuming feelings can, should exist only in the Club; only in the context of this arrangement and what it brings out in each of you. The anonymity is what gives rise to them; the knowledge that this side of you is separate. The thrill and devotion that brings cannot exist without it; in the outside world it would fizzle and die. The Club made that clear from day one. That nothing that happens in happens out, and nothing that happens out happens in, and that’s exactly how you like it—how you all like it. Your life beyond these walls is none of their concern. Your life within them is theirs for the taking.

Jongho’s thumb pushes past your lips and into your mouth. You suck at it eagerly, soothing yourself on the warm skin until he yanks at your jaw, forcing your mouth open. “Tongue,” he orders. Familiar with his commands, you stick your tongue out, allowing him to inspect it. He holds the end firmly between two fingers; when he lets it go, you’re well-trained enough to know not to put it back in your mouth until he tells you to. He smiles almost proudly, before a wad of spit hits the back of your throat; he closes your mouth gently, patting your cheek.

“Hold it in your mouth,” he orders; then, a second later, “swallow.”

He looks down, gently nudging at your knees, pressed together, with his shoe. “Spread.”

Your legs part quickly, revealing your pussy to the man in front of you. His eyes flicker between it and your face, a knowing smile on his lips. “You’re wet,” he states.

“Poor thing,” another chimes in. You turn your head slightly, catching the eye of the man sitting next to Jongho. Hongjoong smiles and tilts his head as though he has no idea the effect this all has on you. You purse your lips, holding back a whine.

They all know what their voices, the commanding, condescending tones, do to you; they capitalise on it frequently. You don’t even realise you’ve been grinding your bare pussy against the floor until Jongho’s foot collides with it. For a moment you forget yourself, the feeling of his shoe against your bare cunt too intense to think through; you cry out, reaching down to clutch at it pitifully. Irritated, he kicks you again—this time the leather shoe lands against the hands shielding your cunt. He grabs your hair, pulling you up between his spread legs and bending you over one of his thighs, the other locking you in place. You know what’s coming before the first hit lands.

“Move. Your. Fucking. Hands.” Each word is punctuated with a slap to your already sore ass, and he adds a few more for good measure before grabbing your hair again and pushing you back down to the ground, just as you were before. “Are you ready to behave?” He asks.

“Yes, sir,” you whisper.

“Good,” he smiles. “You’re going to suck me off. And if you do a good job, I’ll think about letting you hump my leg. Yeah?”

“Yes, sir.”

He pulls his dick out, an expected development but it sends a thrill through you nonetheless. He nudges you closer to him. “Show them how you please me.”

With practised grace you push yourself up to reach him as he feeds his dick into your mouth. You keep your hands behind your back, per the rules, fingers laced together as you slowly start to bob up and down on his length.

By now you’re well accustomed to taking their entire lengths, but Jongho’s thickness is always a challenge; it forces your mouth open just this side of painfully, and you struggle to keep your teeth from grazing his sensitive skin. He doesn’t care, though; as long as you do what they tell you, none of them particularly do. Jongho lets out a long, quivering sigh that tells you you’re doing a good job and it motivates you to take him deeper, to gag on it more, to forget about comfort and let the haze swallow you entirely.

It happens quickly; you slip into it softly, quietly, like sand between fingertips. You stop worrying about breathing; stop being conscious of it. Because you know that they are—know that they’re monitoring you, that if anything were to even begin to happen to you they’d see the signs before you did.

The slightest twitch, the slightest hair out of place, and they’d stop the scene. The knowledge, the safety of it, is as thrilling as the bite of any whip.

“Christ,” you hear San say. His voice sounds distant and floaty; unreachable beyond the fog of subspace. “She takes dick so well, doesn’t she?”

“Like a trained whore,” Seonghwa hums. “Aren’t we lucky to have such a pliant little pet?”

You hear murmurs of agreement just as Jongho pulls out of your mouth, wiping his hands down on his slacks before he tucks his dick back in without a word. It’s a rule you set together the first time you played like this—they don’t come during the scene. They can shove their lengths down your throat, they can even fuck you, but they do not come. Because this isn’t about pleasure, theirs or yours. This is about submission—about power and trust and sensation. You like it better that way—though you can’t deny you’d like to feel them fill you up at least once, just to know what it would feel like.

A tug of your leash pulls you towards San and Wooyoung. They come as a pair more often than not, and today doesn’t appear to be an exception. They stare down at you quizzically, like they’re sizing you up, deciding what to do with you. Deciding how to break you.

“I love you like this,” San says. “Pliant and broken and ready to obey. Yeah?”

“Yes sir,” you mutter.

He clicks his tongue. “Louder,” he snaps. “Let the others hear it. You don’t hide from us, girl.”

“Yes sir,” you repeat. He nods in satisfaction then slaps your cheek; a hard, biting hit that feels as sweet as any reward. He barely seems conscious he’s doing it; more of an instinct than a choice.

“We talked about what to do with you today,” Wooyoung says. “There’s so many possibilities, so much we could inflict on you. Pain—you always like that. Humiliation. We thought about taking you through to the main area and whipping you there, but we know you can’t go down properly if there’s strangers around.”

He’s right. You’ve done a couple of ‘public’ scenes, on the benches out in the bar area, once on the stage where Club sometimes holds demonstrations and performances. You just wanted to try it; to feel the rush the other patrons seemed to get from having an audience.

It wasn’t catastrophic. It was fine. But it wasn’t what it usually is, what it is in here. You spent the whole scene stuck somewhere between subspace and full consciousness, never quite able to ease yourself over the line in either direction. Mingi had called yellow before the bruises had even bloomed.

“Yeah,” Wooyoung says. “It’s not your sort of thing, is it honey?” He sounds faintly amused; your thoughts must have been playing out on your face. “I know. You like it in here with us, so do we. So we thought about what we could do in here. Do you know what we settled on?”

“No, sir.”

He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at you; so does San. You’re not quite present enough to notice what the others are doing; if they’re staring at you, too, or if their attention has drifted. Wooyoung exhales. “Look up,” he says. “What do you see?”

The ceiling, is your first thought; painted white, but more of a dim, muted red in the low lighting of the Club.

Then you see it. Fixed to the ceiling, inconspicuous. Easy to miss—and you have missed it. For all the times you’ve been in here, you’ve never once noticed the eyebolts hanging above you; the steel shining ever so slightly in the dim light.

They’re spread out across much of the ceiling, and you know from your time at the Club that they’re a higher quality than you could probably ever afford. You’ve never used anything like that, though; never really thought to.

You know, though, that your companions are experienced in that area. You remember in your early days at the Club, when you’d watch Yunho and Mingi and Seonghwa out in the open area; when you’d watch them curl thick, strong ropes across bare skin, when you’d see the care, the caution, the ease they worked with. The expertise—the focus.

You remember the first time you saw someone suspended, too. You hadn’t expected it—hadn’t expected Mingi to finish tying the knots, those intricate patterns across the naked back and chest and legs of the woman he was playing with, then hook the ropes through bolts affixed to the ceiling and just… lift her.

It was wondrous; watching her rise from the floor and upwards, like an angel; watching Mingi lift her so carefully, so slowly but so certainly, sure of every movement of her body and every choice he was making.

Every inch of her was positioned by him, to his liking. Nothing moved without his consent. You’d never seen a person so completely and entirely in control of another. You’d never seen surrender like that; hadn’t known it was something that was in your reach.

You’d come to the Club as a curious, nervous observer. The night you watched Mingi pull that girl up with just rope and skill and surrender—it was a turning point. The point of no return. The moment you realised that rope—not just rope, but restriction, the physical and the psychological—could be used not just to bind, but to free.

You’d been desperate to try it; buzzing with excitement when you entered into your agreement with Mingi, already anticipating the ropes and the knots and the freedom. But he’d just looked at you with an expression that was almost patronising—like you were a child dreaming of the impossible—and told you you weren’t ready for that.

“You’ve no experience,” he’d said. “You have a lot else to learn before we start lifting you up. But your day will come.”

And for all your earlier excitement, in the thrill of diving into this new world not just with him, but with the seven other men who took you in as well, the play you’d been so fascinated by had all but slipped your mind entirely.

Until now. You swallow, thick, breathing shuddered and catching in your throat. It feels like the bolts are staring at you as much as you are at them, inviting and mocking at the same time. “Bolts, sir,” you answer.

“And do you know what they’re used for?”

Despite everything—where you are, what you do here, how many far worse and far dirtier things you’ve done with them—you blush a little. Enough to tint the top of your cheeks. “Su…suspension, sir. Rope play.”

“We’d like to lift you up today,” San says. “Colour?”

“Green.” You wait a second or two before saying it—not because you’re unsure, but because that’s another rule. You answer in good time, but not immediately. They need to know you’ve thought about it properly; that you understand what you’re consenting to and aren’t just trying to please them or agreeing to things automatically the way you sometimes do when you’re deep in subspace.

San nods. “Good,” he says. “Then here’s what we’ll do. You see the mat over there?”

He nods towards the middle of a room, where a thinnish padded mat, like the ones used for gym class in high school, is laid out on the floor. You’ve used it, on occasion, when they’re keeping you in intense or complicated positions for extended periods, to stop the floor from digging into your knees or your elbows or your hips.

“Yes, sir,” you nod.

“You’re going to crawl over there and lie yourself out for us. Face down, ass up, the usual position you present yourself in. We’re going to use rope, a lot of it; you’ll stay still while we get you ready. Do you know what happens after that?”

“No, sir.”

He smiles. “After that, you fly.”

You’re not sure how long it takes; how much time passes like that, with your face pressed into the mat, hips raised, as they get you ready. Yunho and Mingi—you remember them being introduced as two of the expert riggers of the Club—move the coils of thick rope across you, beneath your hips and across your chest, around your arms held pinned against your back, around your ankles and up your legs. They move you now and then, onto your side then back into position, and after each new knot they ask you the same questions.

Can you feel it? Is it numb? Tingling? Can you feel their hands when they touch you here?

Yes, you say. I feel it. Nothing hurts, nothing tingles, nothing is numb. When Mingi presses his finger harshly into the skin of your hip without warning, just next to the rope he’d tied a few check-ins ago, you whimper. Usually, you’re not allowed to; noises without permission are a sign you’ve let the discipline they’ve taught you wane—but the sound he makes now is all satisfaction.

“The most important thing,” he tells you, like he sensed your confusion, as if it was revealing itself in your posture, the way you held yourself, the way your weight sank into the knots, “is safety. Feeling. Obedience is secondary. Disobedience can be dealt with—danger, injury, or worse, it can’t be. Suspension play is risky, as you know. So you tell us the second something feels wrong. Yes?”

“Yes, sir,” you whisper.

“Good.” His hand is resting against your back, above a tight knot that bleeds into loose, flaccid coils of rope. You assume those are the ones they’ll feed into the eyebolts on the ceiling. “Curl your toes for me.”

You do. A long finger runs across the sole of your foot, just above where the riding crop had struck it earlier. You wonder if there’s still a mark. If it will bruise. “Good,” Yunho says, then the finger moves up to your lower back. “Open your hand. Squeeze my finger as hard as you can.”

You remember this, the safety check. At the demonstration, the shibari classes you’d sat in the back of, watching silently as one of your companions talked the audience patiently through the process, they’d emphasised this part. Monitor sensation. Nerve damage comes quickly.

There’s a slight tug, a little pressure pulling at the bindings. You hear shifting behind you, something metal, a low murmur, but you can’t turn to see what they’re doing. You realise now, though, that Mingi isn’t kneeling by your side as he was before. Ah. He’s working. He must be feeding the ropes through the eyebolt, testing the pull of them, the way they hold your weight.

He speaks then, low and calm, confirming what you thought. The pressure increases a bit, enough to lift you ever so slightly off the ground. “Tell me how it feels.”

“Good,” you say. “Light.”

“How do the ropes feel? How are they holding you? Is there pain or strain or pressure anywhere?”

“No, sir.”

The ropes slack, and your body comes gently back down. Yunho curls a hand around your calf, squeezing you softly, like a reminder of his presence. “Your leg will go up first,” he murmurs. “Then the rest of you will follow. Your other leg goes last, because if we lifted them first, at the same time, you’d be lopsided. Will you stay slack and relaxed for us?”

“Yes, sir.”

More movement, another sound you can’t quite place, and your left leg is pulled up. Yunho pulls his hand away. “Beautiful,” you think you hear him say.

Another pull. The rest of you rises slowly, carefully, until only your right leg still touches the ground. More rope; new knots around your thigh that Mingi connects to the one just above your hip. He seems to have made that something of an anchor point, but you notice the distribution of the knots is even across your body. You know his plan now; know the points on your body where the ropes will hold you steady.

“Pressure?

“No, sir.”

“Curl your toes.” You do. “Again. Good.”

Their voices feel distant now, like a memory. You don’t feel like part of the world right now. When you open your eyes—you hadn’t even realised you’d closed them—it feels like you’re looking through a layer of gauze; everything seems softer, dreamier, blurrier.

Your right leg lifts. They pull you up until you’re a few feet off the ground. Fingers push into your mouth. “Suck,” Seonghwa orders. “No biting.”

Your eyes feel heavy. You’re not tired, though—everything is just slowing down. So is your breathing and your heart rate and, you think, time itself.

“That’s it,” Seonghwa murmurs. “Feel it. Let the ropes hold you. Forget everything else.”

“We don’t have anything else planned,” Hongjoong says. Perhaps he sees the small part of you that can't stop itself from bracing itself for what’s next no matter what you’ve been ordered to do. “We just wanted to have you like this. No pressure, no expectations. We’re just going to keep you like this, and touch you, and talk to you, until you’re so far gone you can’t do anything but float there.”

“Yes, sir,” you mumble, and it’s already coming fainter and more garbled than it ever has. God. Your head is swimming.

You’re adjusted slightly, with another tug of one of the ropes that connect you to the ceiling—the movement presses one of the knots directly against your clit.

You gasp. Louder than you’ve ever gotten away with. A jolt of something, like an electric current, rushes through your body, starting in your toes then moving upwards, but it’s gone as quickly as it came.

After a second or two, the rope against your clit fades from stimulation into mere contact. The electricity and arousal is nowhere to be found; the knot becomes just another hand that cradles you.

“I’ve never seen her like this,” Yeosang says. “So gone, so easily.”

“She usually needs something brutal to get here,” Jongho agrees. “Something intense.”

“This is intense,” Yunho says. “Just in a different way.”

No one disagrees—instead the silence stretches. You get the sense they’re simply taking in the sight of you.

A footstep, then another. Yeosang’s voice comes as a low murmur as his fingers brush down your side, his touch feather-light as it trails across your bare skin. “Tell me how you feel.”

You open your mouth to reply. The words don’t come. They don’t even try to. You make a small, soft sound instead, somewhere between a squeak and a sigh. Someone chuckles faintly; distantly. Yeosang hums. “You’re in deep,” he says. “You give in so sweetly. You’ve gotten so good at surrendering.”

“She needed it,” Seonghwa says. He pushes his fingers in a little further, pressing against the back of your throat and your eyes are watering as you try not to gag around them. “She needed all of this. It takes so much trust to do this.” His voice has dipped, softened, clearly speaking to you now. “So much strength, to let the ropes hold you like this, to trust us not to let you fall. Trust that we’ve tied them in the right way to hold you steady. That’s why you had to wait so long; we had to know you could handle it. And you handle it so beautifully, don’t you?”

His fingers pull out of your mouth; you whine at the loss, dizzy, head swimming and fuzzy and blurred; you assume that’s why they let you get away with it. Usually noises like that, whining like that, attitude like that, gets you beaten.

A single finger presses under your chin, angling your head up just a little. Just enough to see him. “Colour.”

“Green, sir.”

He’s silent for a moment, staring, then, “define green.”

“S…sir?”

“This is new and heavy and it’s sent you down hard. Show me you understand what you’re saying right now. What does green mean?”

“Means good. Means… means I’m okay.”

It’s a struggle to get the words out; he seems to recognise that, his other hand caressing your cheek gently the way he does when he’s pleased with you, or when he’s showing you off, or when he simply wants to admire you.”

“Smart girl,” he murmurs. “Perfect thing.”

“I want to take a picture,” Yunho says. Technically, he doesn’t need to tell you; you’ve done it before, on his expensive camera no one gets to touch but him, and you’ve told him he can. That he doesn’t need to ask—still, he often chooses to. “You look stunning like this, so vulnerable. And the ropes bring out the redness in her ass, don’t they?”

“It’s a nice contrast,” Wooyoung agrees. Mentally, silently, you second his words. You bet the contrast is beautiful, actually; it usually is. It’s one of Yunho’s favourite things; Seonghwa’s too; to mark you up then put you in something soft and white and delicate to make the bruising pop. These ropes, white, soft against your skin despite the thickness and rigidity of them, must be doing the same.

Yunho hums, and you feel him shifting just beyond your line of sight, then a long finger pressing against one of the ropes that run across your upper thigh, just below where it meets your ass. He moves his finger over the rope, vertical, so it dips down into the slight dent the rope is making in your skin on either side. He pushes at the rope with his finger. It doesn’t budge.

“Beautiful work, Mingi,” he says. “Rigid. She couldn’t move if she tried.”

Footsteps. Another hand on the back of your thigh. Yeosang’s voice reaches slowly and softly through the haze. “Her ass is so red,” he says. “Bruising already. If someone came in now, that’d be what they’d notice. How red and warm and swollen she is here.”

“They’d know what happened, too,” Seonghwa adds. “They’d know she needed to be beaten because she couldn’t go down on her own. They’d know how well she took it, too.”

“Everyone knows how well she takes it.”

A few of them laugh, a low sound, and you know why. Hongjoong is right—you’ve been beaten out in the open area more than a few times. Sometimes on the stage, as part of a demonstration, or sometimes, when you couldn’t sit still and behave while they were socialising, dragged over to the nearest chair and over someone’s knee before you could blink.

Whatever it is, you always take it well. It’s a point of pride for you.

“Look at that little face,” Seonghwa chuckles. “So blissed out. My favourite sight.”

“Such a pretty girl,” Mingi agrees. “I’ve never seen anyone give into the ropes like this. Totally slack.”

“How do you feel?” Yunho’s voice comes from behind you. “Tell me your colour, sweetheart.”

“Green.” You murmur. “Feel good.”

A finger presses into the rope on your pussy, increasing the pressure on your clit, making you pulse, toes curling; your breath hitches quietly, then a small whimper pushes past your lips. They’re talking, you hear their low voices, the gentle, easy authority that settles itself around every word, but you don’t know what they’re saying exactly. Sometimes they touch you, a finger trailing down your side or your leg or your back, or a hand resting on your thigh or your ass and just sitting there, unmoving, a quiet grounding presence to keep you floating in place. Stop you from drifting.

The next thing you’re aware of is Seonghwa, in your line of vision now, pushing his thumb past your lips again. “Don’t suck,” he says. “Let it sit there. I’m going to ask you a question. You’re going to answer it honestly. Say yes sir.”

“Yes sir,” you respond.

“You were whipped because you weren’t properly settled. There were things—worries, stresses, whatever it was—you were still carrying with you. Yes or no?”

“Yes sir.”

“This is what you’re getting tonight—the ropes. Our intention from the start was for this to be the focus, but I want you to tell me honestly—will this be enough? Do you feel you’ve gotten everything out that you wanted to get out? Will this keep you settled until the next time we meet?”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in. Another for the answer to take its shape. “No, sir.”

None of them respond. Seonghwa makes a sound like he was expecting you to say that—like he’d seen it somewhere in you. Your face, maybe. Maybe somewhere else. Somewhere, you can tell, he’d picked up on the static that was still buzzing under your skin, the weight still sitting heavy on your shoulders. Something that needs quieting.

“Thank you for telling me,” he says. “I thought the same. You’ve gone down beautifully, but I wondered if one beating would be enough to sustain you. It often isn’t. Tell me what you need.”

What you need. The words feel strange to you, for some reason; off, slightly. Perhaps it’s the simplicity of a question that, now, to you, feels so monstrous.

You don’t know, exactly. The thoughts scatter like mice when you try to reach for them. You settle on the word that’s been sitting there quietly for longer than you’ve really been conscious of it. “Hurt.”

“Hurt,” he repeats. “You want us to hurt you? Is that what you need?”

“Please.” The word comes as little more than a whisper.

“You can’t take anything heavy like this,” he tells you. “Just our hands. But you’ll feel it deeper, more intensely than you would otherwise. Colour?”

“Green.”

Seonghwa is right; that’s your first thought, when a large, calloused palm lands on the back of your thigh. The hit is measured, not gentle but restrained, but when you’re this helpless, when your weight is held so strangely and entirely as it is now, it makes your entire body light up. A sting, then an ache, that sinks into your skin and permeates beneath it, just as he said it would. You gasp, your foot twitching; the only movement you’re at liberty to make like this. When you’re not restrained, the first hit can sometimes make you jolt; one of the few disobedient habits they haven’t yet managed to work out of you. Like this, though, you’ve no choice.

For a moment, you wonder if they’ve noticed that too—that the rope is holding you still, that it forces you to take the hits with the grace and control you ought to have a handle of by now.

The moment after, you realise that they definitely have noticed. You don’t think you could sneak anything past them if you tried.

“Again, Mingi,” Seonghwa says. “You can go a little harder, let her feel it. And sweetheart.” He tilts your head upwards to meet his eyes. They’re calm, gentle, the hint of severity subtle enough that anyone else would likely miss it. Not you, though—not the person who knows every facet of their dominance the way you know the facets of your own body; who seeks that dominance, that control, like it’s the only thing that can sustain you. “Don’t move your foot this time,” he says. “This is your chance to show us the control we’ve been working on. To show us you can take it properly.”

“Yes, sir,” you whisper. The next hit lands while you still taste the words on your lips. You keep yourself still this time, you think. Seonghwa hums.

“Excellent. You do know how to behave, don’t you, my girl?”

Another hit, this time in the middle of your ass; this one seems to be someone else, a smaller hand that hits with equal determination. The words almost choke you where you force them out of your throat. “Yes, sir.”

“You make a good rope bunny, too,” he smiles. “All blissed out. Not trying to balance yourself or hold your own weight; just trust the ropes to hold you properly. Like your body knows this is where she belongs.”

Another hit. Another. Another. You’ve lost count now, the pain blooming across the expanse of your backside, down to your knees, sticking to your skin like glue and reducing everything else to a dull, dormant hum. The hits don’t really feel like hits anymore; just a tool to preserve and add to the pain, the sting, the depths of submission you feel it pushing you towards. They don’t hurt individually. They’re just parts of the whole. Small fragments of the big, heavy, blooming pain that feels like being guided home.

At some point you start crying, whether from the pain you’re hardly registering or the release you hadn’t realised you’d been in such need of you don’t know; what you know is that Seonghwa runs his thumb across your cheek, expression kind, then pushes it past your lips. It sits there for a second before pulling out. “Crying now,” he murmurs, musing to himself mostly. “Those poor, pointless tears of yours, just crying for the sake of it. You really needed this, didn’t you?”

“‘Needed,” you repeat, the words pushed out between short gasps for air.

“Yeah,” Seonghwa says, with a low, short laugh. “I know.”

“We’re going to want to take her down soon.” Yunho’s voice is low, the words probably not meant for you to hear. You’re not certain why you do hear them, when so much of what they’ve said and done since they strung you up like this has slipped by unnoticed. “We’ll make sure she’s gotten what she needs, then slowly start to lower her.”

“She’s not there yet,” Seonghwa replies. “There’s still something unsettled there.”

“Yunho,” Mingi murmurs. “You think she can take a paddle? Just a small one. It’ll get her there faster.”

It’s silent for a moment; Seonghwa’s thumb is rubbing slow circles into your cheek now, the other trailing slowly down your chest towards where your breasts sit bare and suspended, nipples hard in the cool air. Yunho makes a nose you can’t decipher. “Yeah,” he says after a moment. “We’ll put the leather paddle on the backs of her thighs. That ought to do it.”

You hear shuffling, footsteps, presumably someone heading to where they keep the collection of paddles. A large, steady hand is resting on your ass, your skin still hot from Mingi’s heavy handed smacks, keeping you grounded while you wait.

You’re not sure how long it takes. Time is a fickle thing like this. When the paddle, small, leather, circular, the first one they ever used on you once they decided you could take more than their hands, presses against your thigh, someone else is wielding it. It taps against your skin once, twice, three times, and you give a shuddered exhale.

It’s San. He likes to do that when he’s about to beat you; like he’s getting your skin used to the feeling of the implement before he makes it hurt. “Good girl,” he murmurs. “You’re going to be so pretty and red for me. Hot, swollen little legs so everyone knows how well you take a beating. Colour, girl.”

“Green, sir.” It’s a fight to say anything that sounds like a word right now.

“Good girl.”

San isn’t the hardest hitter of them all—but none of them are anything in the realm of gentleness. And given you’re apparently on something of a time crunch now, you probably shouldn’t be surprised when the first hit comes down like a bullet.

You gasp, breath hitching, and he hums. “Hurts more on your thighs, doesn’t it?”

“Yes sir.”

“We usually leave them alone when you’re not being punished.” Another hit, then another, one on each side. “But today is a special circumstance. Today you need it.”

San is lying, sort of—not about you needing it, but about them leaving your thighs alone when you’re not being punished. They all—Yunho and Mingi in particular—like to pepper the backs of your thighs with smacks to warm you up before focusing on your ass, and that tends to include the occasional swat to your thighs. You don’t remember an impact session that hasn’t left you red and aching halfway down to your knees.

But you suppose you understand what he means; they never really focus on your thighs. Nothing like this. Because you can’t take nearly as much on your thighs as they’ve trained you to take on your ass.

Now, though, you suppose that’s the point.

“She’s glowing red,” someone says—Hongjoong, it sounds like, but you can’t tell where his voice is coming from. “Poor little thing. Can’t imagine how much she’s been needing this.”

The hits have faded into each other now, just as they did before, the pain and the submission too intense to feel each swat individually. It’s just a uniform pain that gets harder, louder, pushes you deeper every time he adds to it. You feel like you’re a hundred miles away from the Club, on a cloud somewhere up high, and your body doesn’t feel your own anymore. Doesn’t feel real. Everything that’s happening to you—the pain, the sting, the ropes pressed into your skin and rubbing against your cunt—feels separate. Fuzzy.

And then, in an instant, everything goes quiet. Your thoughts slow down then stop. The weight in your chest, on your shoulders, fades into itself then disappears completely.

You feel the last hit—hard, solid, uncompromising. Your tears are wet against your cheeks. You exhale.

“She’s done.” Yunho’s voice is like a physical presence on your skin; like a hand that presses into your back and anchors you to the ground. You feel yourself coming back down, the far-away, floaty feeling dissipating. You land back in your body as gently and softly as a falling feather.

Everything is silent. Even your head. A thumb presses into the sole of your foot, just beneath your toes, and rubs a slow, firm circle. “Lower her,” Yunho says. “Mingi.”

Mingi says something, something affirming, and then slowly, carefully, you’re returned to the ground.

Your body feels yours again.

You’re a little sad to see the ropes go; for a while, after all, they felt as much a part of you as anything else, and they held you so safely and securely while your companions worked. It feels like saying goodbye to a friend. You whine a little, unable to help yourself, and Mingi softly swats your thigh. There’s no chiding behind it; just care.

“Hush,” he chuckles. “You did well, sweet girl. You were so brave.”

“It takes a long time, usually, for a submissive to let the ropes hold her like that,” Seonghwa adds. His hand is still pressed against your cheek, thumb sitting on your tongue now, and your head is cradled in his lap. “But you did it on your first try. I’m so proud of you.”

You’re lifted up then, cradled against someone’s chest then sat down on the couch. You’re held sideways, titled onto your side to avoid putting pressure on your ass or your thighs. It’s only when a hand comes to press against your ass, rubbing it softly, that the pain even really registers.

It’s not sharp and biting anymore; just a lingering ache, a slight sting. You sigh contentedly, letting yourself relax again, breathing in the warmth of your companion’s chest and the scent of his cologne.

Yeosang, it takes you a second to place. He’s undone the top of his shirt to let you press your face into his skin.

“Perfect girl,” he murmurs. “Perfect sub.”

You hear the others hum, noises of agreement, then their voices fading into the quiet.

It’s a comfortable kind of quiet. Warm. Familiar. Hongjoong breaks it with a voice barely above a whisper.

“You know,” he says. “Sometimes she makes me want to break the rule.”

If anyone responds, your head is still too fuzzy to register it.

Heulwen just started to rise as his wife, Luain, set in the sky opposite of him. His rays of light danced across the waters of Muireann's Sea, bathing Hope's End in ethereal light that seemed too blessed for the port town to deserve. Their roles forced them to spend most of their lives apart. The sun ruled the day, the moon ruled the night… and only rarely did they share the sky. Today was far from one of those days.

A ship was hastily being moored, sailors fastening ropes to anchors along the docks as sentries guarded the gangway from the gathering civilians. A barricade of soldiers with bronze platemail shining off Heulwen’s rays were barring a crowd of starving people from the cargo they were transporting. Crates of bread, processed meats, wheels of cheese, and barrels of wine, ale, and spirits alike. Items the citizens of Hope’s End would weep to possess, yet they were being forced to watch as they were being transported through their streets to the capital above.

In the distance sat a young girl, high upon a stack of empty crates, watching the crowd grow with each passing minute. The air smelled of rotten fish and metal, the kind of smell that never left your clothes no matter how hard you scrubbed. Yet she could smell the fresh bread she could see from her perch, so aromatic she could nearly taste it.

‘To the bottomless pit of the capital it goes,’ she thought to herself as she sighed, eyes scanning the soldiers as they started to move the crates to wagons. If only she could have been born on the other side of that wall… she'd never starve, she'd never ache for anything.

Amongst the people, she could see her mother, her head weaving between taller shoulders, stretching to see above their frames. Before she could call out to her, a sentry stepped between the barricade of his men, voice carrying effortlessly over the crowd.

“Be gone! Back to your duties, your provisions will be dispersed within the week. The capital will decide your rations.”

Cries erupted, shouting of disapproval and anger, men demanding their families shares, mothers weeping for what was promised for their children. Before this, a portion of these supplies would be given to the denizens of the docks, but today, their king demands first provisions. That young girl, Althea, watched as her mother and neighbors began to push back at the announcement.

“Mama!" Althea cried as she saw her mother break through the crowd and rush one of the sentries. Her cries fell on deaf ears as the woman laid hands on the bronze armor, prompting him to strike her down with a swift hit from his bronze gauntlets.

There was no warning before her body hit the floor with a sickening thud, a sound that seemed to echo through the crowd from Althea's perspective. Her feet stumbled as she watched, the crowd going silent for a beat or two. Her mother didn't move, not even a twitch as the blood pooled at her head on the cobblestone, cries of anger turning to that of fear and anguish.

Althea’s chest tightened painfully as she scrambled off the crates, crashing to the stones in her clumsy descent before rushing her way through the crowd to her mother. Her trembling hands gripped her body, pulling her into her lap where her mother’s lifeless eyes awaited her gaze. Once bright and full of life, turned unfocused and dull, a sight burning into Althea’s memory now. The guards did nothing to acknowledge what they had done, leaving the child to weep over her mother’s body as if they meant no more than the rats in the sewers did.

Althea never heard when the crowd had dispersed, nor when the carts were drawn away with the soldiers alongside them. She lay over her mother’s body even as she felt the sky begin to weep with her, soaking through her clothes and washing away the blood beneath them both. It was as if the goddess, Muirrean, was weeping with her as the waves turned deadly against the docks.

Two hands gripped her shoulders, yanking her from her state of grief and dragging her from her mother's body and into the dark of the alleyways nearby. Before she could protest, her eyes fell on the sentries that had reappeared, now marching towards her mother's form.

“Don't…” Her head finally snapped back to the voice, a boy her age, though shorter and scrawnier. His eyes held pity, but they soon darted back to the sentries past Althea.

“They’re taking her,” he said quietly, looking between the sentries and the girl he'd dragged away.

Althea's own eyes returned to the scene, her body moving to run back to her mother only to be stopped by the boy’s hands again.

“No! They’ll punish you if you interfere. They always do.”

As much as Althea hated it, she knew he was right. She huffed in frustration, body relaxing but still she yanked her arm from his grip as she watched them gather her mother’s body. They laid her onto a cart, neatly draping a cloth over her body before beginning their retreat back towards the capital gates.

One man lingered, eyes scanning the streets as if looking for something. He wore a black cape over his ornate bronze armor, the red furs and fine detailing on the breast plate signified that he was the Lord Commander of the King’s Guard. He was the kind of man normally only seen inside the walls of the capital unless there was a battle, which made Althea's eyes narrow in confusion.

“What in the seven hells is the Lord Commander doing here?” She questioned the boy, who seemed to have the same thoughts etched on his face as she peered back at him.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” he whispered, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The man seemed to debate walking further into the streets, ignoring the people watching from doorways and storefronts, before finally turning to march towards where his men had already disappeared. “Was he looking for you, as well?”

“I hope not. Whatever reason they have to gather my mother’s body, I would rather not find out by being dragged to the capital as well,” she said quietly as she stood finally, running a hand through her soaked hair. The storm seemed to calm, though the rain persisted. Wind cut through the streets, tugging at her soaked clothes and causing Althea to realize just how cold she was as she turned to the equally drenched boy next to her, extending a hand. “Thanks for pulling me away… I’m Althea.”

The boy looked at her hand with a quirked brow before accepting her help, lifting to his feet as well. His grip was weak, but still quite firm for a boy his size. “Dughall. We’ve met before. Your mother helped pass out rations to us orphans.”

Althea's eyes narrowed in thought before nodding. “Is that why you helped me?” She asked cautiously, letting go of his hand and crossing her arms over her chest.

“Yeah, something like that,” Dughall’s lip quirked into a sly grin before turning to walk deeper into the shadows of the alley. “Come on, follow me… I’m willing to bet the Lord Commander will send men to seek you out if he really was looking for you.”

Althea stared after him for a moment, eyes sharpening contemplation. She barely knew the boy, yet he was offering her safety?

“You think too much,” Dughall teased as he noticed she did not immediately follow him, shooting a lopsided smile over his shoulder at her.

Althea huffed, running a hand over her face in contemplation. She hesitated, weighing her options, then reluctantly following him. Her boots splashed through rain-filled puddles as she caught up to him. He led her through the dark of the alleys, past the normal hustle of the port city to the edge of the town. Tucked below the wall to Aradigm, their capital, there were rows of shacks, orphans and elderly caring for each other. Some scrambled at the sight of the new girl, broad and tall with fair hair and eyes that seemed to bore into everything.

“This is my home. You're welcome to it, just don't go scaring everyone with that scowl,” Dughall snickered as he pulled open the door to a small shack with several bedrolls made on top of crates. It wasn't ideal, but it was better than being found by the sentries for whatever they were looking for her for, if that was even the case to begin with.

Dughall retrieved another blanket, tossing it onto the barest of the beds and waving her to it. He quietly fetched some bread for her as she sat down, tugging the blanket around herself to warm up. She gratefully accepted the bread, nodding at him in a silent thank you before taking a small bite.

Althea slowly ripped at the bread, staring off at the door as she bit into it. Her mind reeled, a dull ache building at her temples as she tried to make sense of the day. It took her a long moment before she finally spoke again, pulling her gaze towards the boy again for a short time, studying him a bit. She didn’t quite trust him completely, but who was she to deny a companion?

“looks like we're allies for now,” Althea sighed, eyes drifting back to the door, watching the fading light outside as she thought of that morning — of blood on stone, and her mother’s eyes staring at nothing. How she was now sitting there… with a boy she barely knew, if not for her mother.

Dughall gave her a half smile and nodded, “You can call it a found family… but don’t take that for granted. I don’t give that name to just anyone.”

“Oh, so I should feel special, right?” Althea scoffed with a smirk before tearing off a hunk of the bread to bite into. She didn't mind the boy's relaxed attitude, he'd at least be decent company given the circumstances.

“Special?” Dughall scoffed out a laugh and rolled his eyes, laying back on his bed and getting comfortable. Althea let the conversation die off with a small chuckle at his words, focusing on the food he'd shared with her before following suit and allowing herself to rest.

It’s not that Mingi isn’t traditional; not that he doesn’t enjoy traditional punishments, traditional discipline. He does.

He just likes to be creative. Likes to catch you by surprise. He likes the sort of punishments where he can watch you squirm; where he can not just see your body’s reactions but feel them, too; every emotion, every thought, every feeling that passes through you for even a second, and know for absolutely certain that you’re learning your lesson.

That’s how he landed here. On this. It was somewhere you ended up together.

He’s always liked anal. Loved the feeling of a hole squeezing him; the way it contracts and tenses and spasms, the way your body jolts and tries to get away from him on instinct no matter how much you want it. And he loves the implications, too; knowing how dirty it is, how demeaning it is for you to be fucked open in a hole you’ve scarcely explored yourself. Knowing that you know, too; knowing you know exactly how degrading it is to be fucked and stretched there. The sort of thing only a whore would like—that what he says, when he wants to remind you of it. When he wants to make sure it’s not slipping your mind; that you’re not forgetting what’s happening and what it means.

You’ve been pushing it today. You often do, the little brat that you are, but today you’re worse than normal. Snide remarks, eye rolls when you think he’s not looking and when you know he is; little things that have added up to something he just doesn’t have the patience for.

For a while, while you were toeing the line but not quite crossing it, he was planning on just taking you home and smacking you around. Getting your ass red, the tears flowing, then putting you into the corner to think about your behaviour. Maybe he’d finger you against the wall, if you took your punishment well.

When you began crossing it, he decided on the belt. It’s not his go-to, but he’d hardly say it’s rare that he uses it. It’s more fun, gets his adrenaline flowing, and doesn’t hurt his hand; and nothing else makes you quite as sorry quite as quickly as thick, strong leather snapping against your bare ass and thighs.

Well. Almost nothing.

You’re well and truly over the line, past the point of no return and about two miles north, when he decides you’re going home. This behaviour, this attitude, just can’t wait.

And there’s no way you’re getting the belt anymore.

He walks you to the car with a hand on the back of your neck. Firm, his grip tight, long thick fingers splayed out across the expanse of your flesh. It’s rare—these days, at least—for him to do this. Or for him to have to do this, as he always corrects you, because it’s not his choice—it was your choice to misbehave. To be such a bratty little bitch that he has no choice but to treat you like it. No choice but to set you straight.

“Mingi,” you hiss, squirming weakly in his grip, a halfhearted attempt at escape. God, his grip is tight; sometimes you wonder if he actually knows his own strength before you remember that he definitely, absolutely does. He’s choosing to use it—he likes using it. “C’mon. Hurts.”

“This happens every time,” he gruffs in response. “Thought you’d have learned to stop complaini— will you stop fucking struggling, girl?” His voice dips, almost a snarl now, and his grip tightens punishingly in response. “You’re making a fucking scene. M’sure I've taught you not to make a scene. Not to embarrass me, brat.”

“Ouch, fuck, okay, sorry— I’ll be good, Min, sorry.”

“Atta girl.”

He fishes the keys out his pocket as the car comes into view and unlocks it, stuffing them back in with a grunt. He doesn’t speak as he opens the door, shoving you into the front seat and buckling you in; you try to do it yourself, mumbling that you’re an adult, you can do it yourself, but he slaps your hand away. “Don’t get in my way,” he grunts. “I taught you how to behave, act like it. If you move an inch before I’ve got you home you’re gonna get it worse.”

“M’kay,” you murmur.

He doesn’t look at you as he drives; doesn’t talk. You at least have the sense not to try and make conversation. You just stare out the window, watching the city pass you by and wondering what awaits you at home.

Even if you do already know.

The door has hardly closed, the lock scarcely clicked shut when his hands are on you again. They’re even harder than before, even heavier; one is in your hair, grabbing a fistful and yanking your head backwards, and the other lands against your face once, twice, three times until your eyes are watering and you’re fairly certain you’ve bitten your tongue.

You don’t try to look at him. You know better than that now.

“Kneel,” he grunts. You’re on your knees, legs spread, before he’s finished saying it.

Your pussy is dripping, you feel it. You wouldn’t be surprised if there was a dark, damp patch on the crotch of your panties. You wonder if he can see it from beneath your tiny little skirt where it’s surely ridden up over your hips.

He probably can’t, though, from so high up—but he doesn’t really need you. He knows you. He knows how fucking soaked you get when he treats you like this.

He takes a step towards you; you watch the movement of his boots, the black ones with the red soles he’d gotten for the Louboutin show he went to, move across the floor towards you. Then he stops.

He doesn’t speak. The silence stretches. The air between you gets hotter and thicker with every second you’re waiting to hear your sentence.

“You just can’t resist, can you?” He says. “Can’t resist the urge to act out, no matter what I do. Whether I beat you like a dog or spank you like a little girl, you just can’t help yourself. Isn’t that right?”

You nod. He moves his foot forward, across the floor, squeaking against the wood, until it’s pressing against your pussy. The contact makes you gasp, shuddering; you bite down the moan you know you don’t have permission to let out.

“Verbal answers,” Mingi orders. “Don’t go quiet on me.”

He increases the pressure, enough that you’re certain you almost white out for a second. “Yes sir,” you squeal.

He grunts. “So you’re not dumb, then. You know how to answer me. Just don’t know how to act.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Don’t lie.”

He moves his foot back, so the tip of the toe is only just grazing against your panties, then presses it back with full force. You feel like you’re going to pass out. “I’m sorry.”

“For lying, maybe. But not for acting out. You were hoping for this, weren’t you? You like this.”

“I…”

“You don’t need to answer,” he says. “Your cunt is answering me, and she loves it. I bet you’re dripping now, aren’t you?”

You open your mouth to reply, but the words don’t come. Can’t come, because Mingi cuts you off before you can speak. “Or is dripping too small a word?” He muses. “I don’t think it quite covers it, not for someone who gets as wet as you do. Never met anyone like it; never met a girl who fucking leaks like this. Especially not from being kicked around.”

“Yes, sir,” you nod. “I’m… I’m leaking.”

“I know you are,” he says. “This much slick, the whole room smells like pussy. Neighbours can probably smell it too. I bet they’re wondering what you’ve done to get yourself abused this time.”

“Maybe, sir.”

“What would you tell them? If they came and knocked on the door and asked you why you’re on your knees this time, what would you say?”

“I’d say I misbehaved,” you answer. “That I… I acted like a bitch. I didn’t respect you.”

His boot is still pressed against you, rubbing against your clit. You wish he would let you move a little, just enough to stimulate yourself. You’re half hoping he’s going to order you to; that he’s going to make you get yourself off on his boot like you’ve done before, but you know he isn’t.

These days, that’s a reward. And Mingi is clearly not in a rewarding kind of mood.

“Get up,” he says. “And get on the bed, in position. Holes presented. If you want me to use lube, you’ll be in just your panties by the time I get there. Yeah?”

“Yes, sir.”

You rise to your feet and scurry away without meeting his eyes; you feel him standing there, unmoving, watching you run down the hall and into the bedroom.

You don’t have many clothes to remove, just your tiny skirt that’s already halfway off and your shirt. The problem is the buttons, all the way down your front; you give up halfway through undoing them and just yank the thing over your head, throwing it and the shirt onto the chair and clambering into position.

Just in time, too; even knowing you’ve obeyed his commands exactly, the sound of his footsteps getting closer and closer down the hall feels a little like an omen.

“Good.” He’s in the doorway now, lingering; you can picture it even with your face pressed into the comforter, eyes squeezed shut like you’re hiding from what’s about to happen; picture his frame, large, looming, predatory eyes fixed on you, lips curling the way they do when he knows he has you wrapped around his finger. “You’ve some survival instincts, at least.”

He’d slow as he walks over to you; leisurely. As though this is nothing more than amusement for him; something to entertain himself with. He comes to stand next to you, resting his on your bare ass cheek.

His hand is large, warm, the skin soft and calloused at the same time. He runs it over your ass, down the back of your thigh, then mirrors the action on the other side. You stay still, silent, refusing to move no matter how much you want to squirm, whine, shiver at his touch, at the strength and control you feel even in the slightest contact. Fuck.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs. His voice is like a physical presence against your skin, like a feather running down the backs of your thighs. “Can’t believe such a pretty little thing manages to be so fucking bad.”

His hand pulls back, the other arm hooking under your stomach to hold you still, then slams down against your ass with full force. It lands in the center, above your crack, and the pain shoots through the entirety of your body like an electric current. You cry out, can’t help it, vision going white, and he pulls back and hits you again.

You forget how strong Mingi is; forget the muscles you love to cling to and touch and bite and just look at, imagining everything he could use them for, aren’t just for show. Aren’t just to fuck you with, to pleasure and service you with—that he can and does use them to keep you in line, as well. That he can punish you with them, too.

“You always fucking push it, don’t you?” He sneers, hitting you again, this time on the back of your thigh. “Can’t help yourself. You just like to see me mad. Like acting like a bitch so you can see me fucking treat you like one, is that it?”

You whine, kicking your feet against the comforter, crying out into the pillow as another hit lands. “Stay still,” he says. “M’not even punishing you yet. Just getting you ready, baby, gotta break you into it. I know what a little crybaby my girl is, don’t I?”

The hits stop as quickly as they started; his hand rests on the back of your thigh where the last one came down. For a moment, it’s silent. Just your heavy breathing, an occasional soft sob you can’t hold back. His hand runs up and down the red, painful skin, a gentle caress, then travels up your ass and hooks into the band of your panties. They’re down and bunched at your knees before you can blink.

And then he’s there; long, strong legs clamber onto the bed, settling behind you, his hands gripping each side of your hips. He nudges your legs apart with his knee, planting it between them to keep them separated, your pussy now bare and exposed to the cold air of the bedroom. “Look at that,” he croons. “Perfect, tiny little pussy. And she’s fucking wet, d’you feel it? Feel how you’re dripping at this?”

You mumble a response, barely aware of the words as they tumble from your mouth. By now the pillow is wet, soaked with drool and tears and sticking to your flushed skin. Mingi exhales, breathing out a laugh. His hand moves over your pussy, so close it almost feels like he’s touching it, like he’s brushing over it—but he never does.

You knew he wouldn’t.

That’s a rule—when you’re naughty, your pussy gets ignored.

“This little hole,” Mingi slides his finger across your rim, making contact now, pushing the tip of it in just enough to make your muscles tense in protest, “is getting fucked open. She’s gonna cry for me, isn’t she?”

“Yes sir.”

His laugh comes low and soft and knowing; the sort of laugh you only hear in moments like this. He clicks his tongue, squeezing your cheek hard enough to sting. “Oh, baby,” he coos. “You don’t have to call me that anymore, honey, you’re not being scolded. We’re past that now. You’re being punished. What do you call me when I’m teaching you how to behave?”

You groan, eyes squeezing shut, burying your face deeper into the pillow. You can practically see the grin stretching across Mingi’s face, all the cockiness and knowing of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing to you and enjoys it. Savours it.

“Daddy,” you mumble.

“What was that?”

“Daddy,” you say, louder now. His finger pushes in a little further, past the first joint, and your breath hitches.

“That’s it,” he smiles. “Now. Daddy’s gonna split your little butt open. Gonna get it all sore and stretched and sorry, yeah? We’re gonna make sure you learn your lesson.”

“Okay, daddy.”

His finger pushes in all the way as his other arm hooks under your waist again, holding you up and keeping you still with a firm grip on your hip. You’re immobile like this, unable to move or escape or even to collapse when your legs eventually give out as they’re wont to do.

“So dry,” he says, “and tight. She doesn’t open up for me the way your little pussy does. But that’s what makes it fun, isn’t it? The pain, the stretch, knowing even your body knows I’m not supposed to be in here. Knowing I’m gonna fuck her anyway.”

“Daddy,” you cry, voice tiny, hollow, already fucked out. “Please.”

“Hm?” He pumps it in and out a few times, pushing in deeper each time, then pulls it out entirely. The presence behind you disappears for a moment, then there’s the sound of the bedside drawer opening and closing. Your hole clenches on instinct.

He’s back behind you again, squeezing the back of your thigh. “Reach back and spread your cheeks,” he gruffs.

Your hands are shaking as you obey, pulling your cheeks apart. The cold air is biting on your hole, bare and sensitive and twitching with need. Mingi pops the cap, squeezing the lube onto his fingers. His other hand braces your waist, fingers digging into the flesh as he presses his coated fingers against your hole. “Easy now,” he grunts. “You’re not getting much, naughty little thing. I should be going in dry with what a bitch you’ve been today.”

He pushes both fingers in at once; it’s a stretch, the lube cold, near freezing, and it makes you gasp, muscles tightening, toes curling into the comforter. You’ll never get used to the size of Mingi’s fingers; knowing they’re just the preface for his cock, so much thicker and longer and meaner, just makes it even harder to take.

He works efficiently, opening you up quickly, almost cruelly.

The sound of his zipper, yanked down so hard it’s a wonder it doesn’t tear off, then his jeans shuffled down far enough for him to pull out his cock, makes you flinch, shivering, anticipation crawling down your spine.

His dick is hard, twitching, already leaking as it presses against your hole. He squeezes another dollop of lube onto the shaft, then curls his hands around your hips again, then pushes in.

He goes slowly, at least, but the stretch still burns. His fingers are digging into your hips hard enough to bruise, making your muscles tighten as you try to withstand the pain that’s spreading throughout your lower half.

“You need to fucking relax,” Mingi grits out, teeth clenched. He’s barely fit the tip in by now, and you’re already crying, your body trying to wriggle away instinctively but his grip is iron and unyielding on you. And fuck, your pussy is crying, weeping, clenching and unclenching around nothing, but there’s so much happening in the rest of your body that you barely even notice.

“I’m never gonna get in like this,” Mingi grunts. “Fucking hell, quit fucking tensing. Acting like a fucking virgin. Relax.”

You nod, mumbling a yes daddy that’s muffled by the pillow, and force your legs to relax. He gets in a little further like that, but it’s a matter of millimetres. He’s just so fucking big.

He growls your name, low and harsh like a scolding and a warning in itself, then smacks your thigh hard enough to make you wince. “I’m fucking telling you this once,” he says. “Slack, girl, like you’re a fucking show dog. Open that fucking hole for me. Don’t make me tear it open myself.”

You know he wouldn’t—of course he wouldn’t. That’s the one thing Mingi is entirely and unmovingly firm about—he won’t cause you any permanent damage. But you don’t have the capacity, the facilities to understand that right now. All you know now is the pain, the pleasure, the need to have him all the way inside you. The need to be good.

It’s not immediate—it’s not easy. But with a little coaxing, soft, harsh words pressed into the patch of flesh between your shoulder blades, his tongue catching on your skin, he manages to relax you enough to push in all the way.

It hurts. The stretch is agony. But you can’t help but push back against it like you’re trying to keep him even deeper.

“Fuck,” Mingh hisses, finally bottoming out, the pressure of his hands growing heavier. “That’s fucking perfect, you— shit. Never met a girl who likes getting her ass fucked this much, god damn. You know how fucking dirty this is?”

He grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks it upwards, then pushes your head back down so it’s lying sideways on the pillow; his hand comes to rest there, pressing your head down against it as he starts to move, the other still digging into your waist.

There’s something different about having Mingi in your ass. The sensations, yes; everything feels bigger and more intense in here—but other things, too.

How wrong and gross and degrading it is. The way your pussy cries for attention and goes ignored. How your body is fighting against it and begging for more at the same time.

And more than anything else, how Mingi is the only man who could ever, ever have you like this.

The sound of sobbing fills the air now, a piercing sound; it takes a moment to realise it’s you, overwhelmed, on the edge of orgasm but unable to cross it.

It took a while for Mingi to teach you to cum with just his dick in your ass, without the slightest of contact with your pussy. A lot of effort, a lot of failure, to bring your ability and control to that level.

But nothing was more difficult and arduous than training you to wait for permission. Not just wait for it—to need it; to be physically unable to climax without his consent. You still don’t know how he did it; how he managed to rewire you like that—you don't really need to. What you know, what you feel right now, is that until he tells you you can, you won’t even get close.

You know without even asking that permission is not coming. Not when you’re being punished. He’d probably hit you again for even suggesting it.

“You’re crying now,” he laughs, sneering, hand moving down to slap your thigh. “Got a dick in her ass and she’s crying from the pleasure. Isn’t that pathetic? You’re meant to be ashamed of this, getting your asshole fucked like an animal, but you’re loving every second of it. I should film this.”

“Daddy,” you groan. You want to turn around, to see him—fuck, you can picture it, the clenched draw, the furrowed brows, the eyes dark, all pupil, glazed over, the sweat gathered on his forehead, strands of hair sticking to his skin—but the pressure of his hand against your face is too much for you to fight again. “Daddy, please—”

“Shut up,” he spits, fucking into you harder. “You’re gonna take what you earned, little girl. Just gonna— just let me do what I gotta do, you gotta learn, don’t you?”

“Got— learn,” you whine. You’re fisting at the sheets, curling them around your hands. Fuck, it feels so—

“Yeah,” Mingi says, “that’s right. I’m gonna fuck you til I’m satisfied, and you know what you’re gonna do?”

“Take it?”

“Yeah,” he says. “You’re gonna take it, and not cum. Naughty little cunts don’t get to cum.”

“Yeah,” you nod. “Don’t get to cum. Please d-don’t let me cum, daddy, please.”

“I won’t, baby, don’t worry.”

You don’t know how long it’s been now; you’re fairly certain your legs have gone numb, and despite the pain and pleasure still coursing through it it somehow feels like your asshole has gone numb too; your pussy, weeping with neglect, hardly feels like it’s part of you anymore. You’re not sure if anything feels part of you now, or if you’ve reached the point you sometimes do with him, when you’re fucked out and submissive beyond the point of awareness or consciousness, when it feels like you don’t really exist inside your body anymore. You feel his grip on your hip and the pressure against your face, the movement of his dick in and out of you, your hole stretching and protesting and clinging to his shaft, the pressure in the bottom of your tummy—but it all feels distant. Separate. Like you’re floating.

Even fucked dumb like this, you can tell when Mingi approaches the edge: feel his thrusts get sloppier, more desperate, hear his breathing grow ragged and laboured, his grip tightening. He leans over you, his lips pressing against the back of your neck, sucking at the tender flesh as he fucks into you. His voice is low, shuddering, cracking and fraying at the edges. “I’m almost there,” he hisses, pressing the words into your skin like a secret. “I can’t— fuck, this tiny little hole is fucking strangling me. I’m gonna split her open— gonna fill her up, hold on.”

“Please,” you mewl, hips bucking back into him. “Fill me up— want it, daddy. Want your babies.”

“My babies?” He pauses, movements ceasing for a moment, then laughs, a loud, sharp, fond sound. “Oh sweetheart, my dumb little girl. Stupid girl, I can’t give you a baby in here. It’s the wrong hole, gorgeous.”

Oh. You frown, brows furrowing, lips curling into an upset pout. That’s not— you don’t like that. You want a baby. You want Mingi’s babies filling you up, making your tummy swell, your breasts growing and leaking—and he’s telling you you can’t even have that? You whine, kicking your feet, tears welling, and Mingi laughs again. But it’s softer now; gentler. Tender. He coos, rubbing your butt soothingly, pressing a kiss to your neck.

“My sweet little girl,” he murmurs. “Just wanna be a mommy, don’t you? Just want daddy’s babies. Don’t worry, honey, I’ll give ‘em to you.”

“Really?”

“I promise, baby,” he smiles. “Daddy’s gonna fill up your little butt until it’s all messy and leaking, and then you’re gonna have a baby. A nice, sweet baby, almost as pretty as you, yeah?”

“Okay,” you sniffle. You’re not sure if you believe him—something about it seems a little…off—but if Mingi is saying something, then you know it must be true. Your daddy would never lie to you. If he says this is gonna get you pregnant, then it’s gonna get you pregnant. You push your leg back a little, pressing your foot against his leg, and he squeezes your ass cheek hard enough to sting.

“My good girl,” he mutters. “Hold on tight, sweet girl. Gonna fuck you full of it now.”

His hands move to grip your shoulders, like an anchor point as he speeds up again, face pressed against the back of your neck; your eyes close of their own volition, squeezed shut, body tensing and tightening and folding in on itself as he pushes over the edge.

He cries out as he finishes, a guttural sound, hands tightening, hips bucking against your ass, his legs almost buckling under the pressure. You sob through it, crying out his name, over and over—Mingi, daddy, Mingi—like it’s the only thing you know how to say.

He almost collapses on top of you; he catches himself in the nick of time, instead rolling off to the side, pulling you with him, his dick still embedded in your hole. Your lower half feels warm, tummy full, cum leaking from around his still twitching shaft. You’re gasping for breath; so is he. He pulls you into him, hands moving to cup your tummy, pressing down hard enough for you to feel it—the warmth, the fullness, his presence still deep inside of you. Your head falls backwards and lands in the crook of his neck.

“Daddy,” you whisper. He hums. “Don’t pull out.”

Mingi coos, increasing the pressure on your tummy, and presses a kiss to the crown of your head. “Wouldn’t dream of it, doll.”

“Are you serious?”

The disbelief in Hongjoong’s voice isn’t surprising—nor, really, are the astounded expressions on the others’ faces. You expected that. You’d have been a little worried if they hadn’t reacted like that.

Still though, the abounding silence, thick and uncertain, is a bit hard to reckon with. For a moment it makes you anxious—perhaps, you think for a second, you’ve finally pushed too far; finally come to them with something they don’t know how to hold or what to do with.

It lasts all of a moment before you remember.

They want this as much as you do. You can tell. You picked up on the signals a long time ago.

When they’d pound into you with your wrists pinned to the bed and your eyes wide and glassy with submission, and they’d coo down at you, telling you how stupid you are as though it’s the highest praise they can think of. When they’d get you on the edge of orgasm after hours of teasing, and ask you a basic question they know you’re too fucked out to answer just to see you try and fail. When you whimper out that soft, sweet “I don’t know” and they cum faster and harder than they have in weeks.

You know they like you dumb. You know they want you dumber.

You admit, though, this is more than that.

Much more.

You nod, shifting your weight awkwardly between your feet. Trying to seem confident and failing exponentially. “I’m very serious.”

Yunho holds the vial up to his eyes again, turning it in his hands like the words on the label haven’t quite sunk in yet. He doesn’t look particularly eager, but he also doesn’t look…categorically opposed, either. That’s all you’d really hoped for right now, with such an outlandish proposition. His brows furrow, concerned. “Is this safe?”

“Of course,” you say quickly. “It’s totally legit. FDA approved and stuff.”

“Why didn’t I know this was a thing?”

You can’t help but giggle slightly; a smile flickers on his face at the sound. “I mean,” you mumble, “it’s not like there’d be billboards, is it? It’s specialist stuff. You have to really want to find it.”

”Right.” He hums, looking a little less confused than before; the others seem to relax ever so slightly, too, but their eyes still move between the vial and you like they’re still trying to reckon with it; with the fact that you, once so shy and sweet and shaking with nerves when they first met you, could even want, let alone press for this.

You can’t quite believe it, either.

“How long does it last?” Seonghwa’s voice is soft, still a little concerned but you recognise the slight lilt to it that always gives him away—something between interest and excitement and outright arousal.

They may not admit it now, but you all know, really, that if they truly were opposed to this the conversation would have been over a long time ago. Certainly before you went through the entire process of procuring it.

No, they want it, you know they do. But you also know just how much enjoyment they get out of watching you beg. Making you work for it.

“It should last a week,” you say. “But it can be shorter or longer the first time you take it. Depends on how your body adjusts to it.”

“And if it goes wrong?” He presses. “If you react poorly to it or we need you back?”

“There’s an antidote.”

“Where?”

“The box it all came in, in my room. There’s a video, too, on how to use it safely, but they ran a lot of tests on me and there shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Still,” Hongjoong says, finally speaking up again. “You never know.”

“Hence the antidote.”

Yunho presses the vial carefully back into your hand, gently folding your fingers closed around it to make sure it’s secure before pulling away. The small, fleeting touch is as electrifying as it always was. “We’ll need to talk about it more,” he says softly. “Go put this back in the box then bring it all back down here, alright? We’ll have a look at it.”

You swore you wouldn’t get your hopes up, but the familiar tinge to his voice—ordering, not asking—makes excitement pulse instinctively. And the fact that he clearly, as he always does, knows exactly what he’s doing and what it does to you, his words and tone and demeanour all by design, has you verging on desperate.

God, you hope they say yes. And soon.

You run to your room as ordered, retrieving the box and bringing it back downstairs. You hand it carefully to Hongjoong, who places it gently down on the coffee table before turning to you with an expectant look on his face. “Well,” he cocks an eyebrow, “run along, then.”

You hover for a moment, unsure; you hadn’t expected to be sent out. You open your mouth to speak when you’re cut off.

“What are you waiting for?” Wooyoung's voice comes sharp. “You were told to leave. So leave.”

“I—”

“You weren’t asked to talk, either,” he says, cutting you off again. “Are you sure you need this serum? Seems like you’re dumb enough already.”

You see a couple of them bite back a laugh. You hold back a moan. “Take it easy, Wooyoung,” Hongjoong says mildly, but the stern look he sends to the younger man is barely so. Transparently fake. He turns his attention back to you, face all softness now. “Go on, sweetheart. This is no conversation for little girls like you. Go play and we’ll fetch you when we want you, yeah?”

You can’t help but clench a little, thighs tightening against each other. God, the way he talks to you—firm and sweet and condescending—could melt you into a puddle right here on the floor. You’re certain your entire face and chest is flushed, burning as you mumble your assent and scurry out of the room.

You sit down at the table, fiddling with the leaflet in your hand; folding down the corners, over and over again to pass the time. The bold, bright pink letters make your stomach twist in excitement already with the promise of what might—you pray—await you next.

Bimbo Serum. Temporarily transform into the dumbest, sluttiest, horniest version of yourself—results guaranteed every time!

“You need to sign this.”

Jongho slides the sheet of paper across the table towards you. Your eyes filter down the page, slow and sure, as silence abounds.

It’s… thorough. Careful, certainly. Reassuring. You don’t know when they drew it up; half an hour after you were sent away they summoned you back to tell you they were in, and now, a few minutes later, here you are.

That’s just what they do, though, really—what they’ve always done with you. They take care of everything before you even know there’s anything to be done. It’s why you’re so comfortable with the idea of switching your brain off entirely with them—in a much smaller way, you already do.

A contract, the title reads, between them and you. “To ensure everything goes smoothly,” Hongjoong adds when you read it aloud. He watches your face carefully; studies it. Searching for the smallest twinge of doubt. He finds none. “The video you gave us recommends it. Give it a read, yeah?”

The words on the page are hot and heavy even read silently, but you force them out from around the lump forming in your throat. You can do this; you want to show them you can do this.

You can’t quite force any kind of confidence into your voice, though.

“Until such time as the serum wears off or the antidote is administered, the submissive entrusts herself to the care and authority of the dominants. The submissive agrees to cede all control, body and mind, to the dominants; in return, the dominants agree to care for and control the submissive responsibly, and accept any and all liability for anything that may occur during this period.”

“Standard stuff,” Jongho says. “Safety things.”

You nod, swallowing, already dizzy. The words turn warmer and fuzzier in your tummy the further on you read. “The submissive accepts that, during the period the serum is in effect, she will have little control or understanding of what is happening to her. She will not be able to make her own choices. She entrusts the dominants to make the right choices for her; in return the dominants agree to keep her health, safety and happiness in mind when making those choices.

“During the period the serum is in effect, the submissive’s sole duty is the pleasure of the dominants. The dominants are under no obligation to provide her pleasure in return.

“The submissive will accept everything the dominants give her. The dominants will never give her more than they know she can handle. If the submissive says her safeword at any point, the antidote will be administered without delay.”

“Well?” San pipes up after a moment. “Do you agree?”

You nod. The tension in your throat is so thick it catches the words as you try to voice them like flies helpless in a cobweb. Mingi curls his hand around yours from where he’s seated next to you. “Breathe,” he murmurs. “It’s just us.”

“Yeah,” you nod. “I— I agree. This sounds good.”

“And your safeword?” Hongjoong prompts. “What is it?”

“Lipton.” The corners of your mouth twitch, a small, nervous smile. It was Seonghwa’s idea—the drink you’d been carrying in your hands the day you met them for the first time. The one you’d nervously sipped at while they spoke; the one he’d barely been able to take his eyes off of as you wrapped your lips around the top.

“Good,” Hongjoong says. Already you see the usual Hongjoong—concerned, almost worrying, a little tense but still calm and collected—fade out and give way to the side he shows only with you.

Scheming. Sadistic. Predatory.

Authoritative, but in a deeper, sicker way than he is with the others.

Fear and arousal crawls under your skin in tandem, a living thing in the bottom of your stomach.

“How do you want to take it?” Jongho asks. “The serum.”

“In a drink,” you reply. “Water ideally. A glass.”

Seonghwa takes the box over to the counter, carefully pulling out the vial and stirring it into the clear water then walking back over to you. He places it down in front of you; the sound of it landing gently on the table makes you jump, already on edge. You don’t miss the way his lips quirk.

“Drink up,” Seonghwa says. A quiet, gentle order. Softness melting away little by little like snow in the sun.

You swallow your nerves and pick up the glass. The liquid is pink now; of course it is, you suppose, isn’t the the colour of bimbos? You hold it up to your lips with a shaking hand—before you can take the first sip Yunho has snatched it from your grip. “You’re shaking,” he says, answering the question you’d no time to ask. “And you want to take it fast. Let me do it for you. Head back.”

With his other hand he cups the back of your head, helping you tilt it back. It collides gently with something large; a soft but solid presence behind you. You recognise the cold steel of Mingi’s rings where his hands reach to cup your chin. Holding you in place for Yunho to put you under.

“Mouth open,” Yunho orders. You part your lips and let him raise the glass to them. The first drop of water comes cold and sweet; raspberry, it tastes like. “Drink.”

He doesn’t go too fast, doesn’t overwhelm you with it but he’s firm, unrelenting. Mingi holds you in place while you swallow it little by little. “That’s it,” he rasps. “That’s a good little girl. Under you go, baby.”

The others watch in silence, unmoving. Hongjoong’s eyes are blazing. Wooyoung curls his hands into fists against the table as your body grows more and more pliant in Mingi’s arms.

“Good,” Yunho encourages. You’re almost finished now and already the effects start to creep in. “Finish it, doll, all of it. Get nice and dumb for us. Stupid and ready for cock, yeah?”

The last drop goes down easier than the first, like your throat’s accustomed to it now—opened up to it. Is that an effect? You don’t know. There was a long list of them, of course—but aside from the list of risks and side effects the doctor has insisted you take heed of, you wanted to keep the specifics as a surprise.

“Let’s go to the living room,” Wooyoung suggests. “We’ll want her comfortable for when she starts going under.”

”Good idea,” Hongjoong says. Yunho and Mingi help you up from your seat, steadying you on your feet when you falter and walking you through before you really know what’s happening. Their grip on you is so firm that you think you could stop walking right now, legs giving out, and you’d still keep moving between them. They walk with you into the living room then step back, silent, watching the way you try to keep yourself steady.

The others get settled, chatting amongst themselves while you stand there aimlessly. You already feel a little dazed; a little lost without their guiding hands. Hongjoong fixes you with an expression that’s half curious, half expectant. “Well?”

“It should start to work soon,” you say softly. “But I’m not sure how long.”

“We’re patient,” Yeosang smiles. “Come here, pet.”

You shuffle towards where he’s sat on the couch and let him pull you into his lap with a small squeak of surprise. His arms wrap around you, his hold firm but gentle; familiar, his hands rubbing small patterns across your skin like he often does. “There we go,” he mumbles. “Relax, angel.”

A few of the others gather around where Yeosang sits cradling you against his chest. Their expressions are gentle, but you see the excitement in their eyes; the tension held tight in their chests like they’re trying to hold themselves back.

They must see the slight confusion on your face, though; must see you wondering why Yeosang seems to be almost trying to soothe you to sleep, because they smile with brief amusement. “The video says you’ll slip easier if you’re comfortable,” Yunho, standing in front of you, explains gently. He reaches down to cup your cheek, smiling when you nuzzle into the touch. “We need you nice and relaxed so you can turn off that brain for us. Get you in your rightful place, hm? Nice and dumb the way you’re supposed to be.”

“She’ll look so pretty with her eyes empty,” Mingi hums. “Nothing on her mind except cock. I can’t wait.”

They’ve always been good at this—talking to you, breaking and wearing you down with their words. Just the low, gentle hum of their voices and the assurance and authority of their words is enough to turn your brain to mush and your limbs to jelly on an ordinary day; pliant and vulnerable and putty in their hands.

Today, though, it’ll be even deeper. You wait expectantly for the fog—or so the leaflet described it—to arrive; for the warmth and fuzziness to creep through your body until you’re enveloped and caught in it like thick smog.

It starts in your tummy. They notice it before you do—your eyes drooping. Breathing slowing down. Body relaxing into Yeosang’s hold just a little bit more. The distant look in your eyes like you’re a hundred worlds away.

“There she goes,” San coos. He's next to Yunho, you realise. You hadn’t noticed his presence at all. “How you feeling, angel?”

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to gather your thoughts but they scatter like mice every time you reach for them. Your words are choked, forced out through the thickening fog.

Fuck, it works fast.

“I…I feel…”

Floaty, you want to say. But the words are gone, vanished into thick, hot air. You wrap Yeosang’s shirt around your fists and cling to him like he’s your last lifeline.

“Oh baby,” San smiles. You feel his grip on your chin, soft but firm, tilting your head up to look at him. “Can’t even talk now, hm? Just so small and stupid, aren’t you?”

“No point trying to get her to respond now, San.” Jongho is sat some distance away, watching the scene unfold with well-disguised interest. His voice is mild; eager, clearly, but still unbothered. It’s absolutely delicious. “She’s too stupid to understand anything we say. Just a pair of holes at this point.”

“Three holes, actually,” Seonghwa says. “Baby slut’s gonna want her asshole used too, I’m sure.”

“Of course she will.” San nods appreciatively, his gaze running up and down your body like he’s drinking you in; he grabs one of your tits and pinches at the nipple with enough pressure to make you gasp. “Pretty little holes, aren’t they? All she’s good for. Empty headed little bimbo, she barely even knows who’s touching her.”

He flicks at your forehead as if to prove his point, like he’s expecting to hear the echo of a hollow, emptied out head. It hurts, stings, but all you can do is push your lips out in a soft, pathetic little pout.

“I like her much better like this,” Mingi laughs. “Dumb and docile. Fuck, can I use her first?”

“Not sure it matters,” San says, shrugging a little. “She’ll be stuffed full and leaking soon enough, but yeah, sure Min. I get her asshole first though. Hasn’t been used in a while. I wanna break it in.”

You just watch, silently, as they discuss you and your undoing like you’re not even there. It’s not a conversation you could join in on now if you wanted to.

You hear them, of course; you even understand what they’re saying, but something is different. Distant. Clouded. Like it doesn’t quite reach you on the level it did before.

Fuck, you love this feeling.

Yeosang pushes two fingers past your lips and you accept them without thought, suckling at them like you’ve been starved for it. Drool spills from your mouth and onto your lap but you neither notice nor care.

He does, though. Sees the thoughts slipping from you as easily as if they were never yours to begin with. “That’s it,” he croons. “You go nice and little for me while your masters decide what to do with you.”

Master. It’s not a foreign term to you—Yunho’s known to favour it sometimes, especially when he’s in one of his moods, and though he’d never admit it it always pushes Hongjoong to his orgasm just a little faster.

But now it’s all of them, and so casually.

There’s no pause or focus or fanfare around it; no more attention to it than any other word. It’s just a fact now; a simple one: they’re your masters, with absolute authority and responsibility.

It feels warmer and safer and more thrilling the further you sink into it; you push it out, a whimpered “master” that sits like sugar on your tongue and Yeosang groans. You feel him twitching just slightly against your ass.

“That’s right,” he praises, pressing his lips against your ear. “That’s my name, sweetheart. Our name. You remember that, yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah, master.”

“Good girl.“

Then there’s another hand on you, wrapping around your thigh and squeezing the bare, tender flesh. You try to turn your head to whoever’s just sat down next to you but it just lolls down against your shoulder—too dumb to hold your own weight. Arousal and helplessness twists in your gut in tandem and you hear Yeosang chuckle, lifting your chin carefully in his hands and tilting your head towards the newcomer.

Seonghwa looks beautiful. You forget that sometimes, just how radiant he is; but now with your mind blank and susceptible and unable to process anything but that which is immediately in front of you, it’s all you can see.

He cups your cheeks, held firm between strong, soft hands, and all you can feel or think about is the safety of his touch. Your awareness is still slipping, pushed further and further, the drug still reaching its full power, but that’s the one thing you know for certain, unwaveringly.

Seonghwa is safe. They all are. Even if it takes you a moment to recognise the faces as they appear in front of you, you know they’re safe through instinct alone.

The fact that that safety so often involves breaking you, pulling you apart at the seams and remaking you as they want you, only makes it more real.

“Sweet thing,” Seonghwa murmurs. “You gone nice and stupid for your masters?”

You moan. “Master…”

His lips curl, a small, leering smile. “That’s it,” he coos. “Our good girl, finally understanding what her purpose is. Took you long enough, didn’t it?”

You whimper, feeling strangely chided; you’re not sure what you’ve done to earn his ire, but that’s the tone—sweetly condescending but with a sternness and a danger that drips from every word—that he uses when you’ve fucked up and are about to be punished.

Yeosang clicks his tongue, but not at you. “Hwa, don’t scare her. She’s so little now, she doesn’t understand you’re just teasing.” He pats your head gently; he seems to delight in the way your expression stays unchanging like you haven’t even noticed. “Hwa was just joking, sweetheart,” he tells you. “He’s not mad at you for taking so long to accept you’re stupid, baby. It’s perfectly normal not to want this; to keep trying to use your brain ‘cause you can’t accept you were never meant to. But you’re so good for finally figuring it out, honey. So clever, baby.”

You start to whine after a moment, though you’re not sure why exactly; there’s a discomfort, an unsettled feeling brewing in your stomach now that you don’t understand. All you know is you want it to stop. You want your masters to fix it. “Hwa,” you sob. “Master.” You clutch your stomach with shaking hands and he presses his own hand atop them, comforting.

“Oh baby,” Seonghwa coos. “Does your tummy hurt, sweetheart?”

You blink, processing. Was it that obvious? “Y-yeah…” You hiccup.

His expression softens further. His eyes do the opposite. He takes his hand away to push two fingers into your mouth and lets you suckle at them like a newborn kitten; your body relaxes a little, though not much. A temporary soother. “That’s it,” he hums. “Feel better?”

A little, you think. But not nearly enough. The pain’s gone from biting to throbbing but it’s still there, still hurting. Your eyes are welling up and you shift uncomfortably in Yeosang’s lap; you feel him hardening beneath you but you’re too unsettled and…and off to process it or what it means. Seonghwa pulls you off of him and into his lap, cradling you against his chest and bouncing you on his knee. “It must be so painful,” he says, all sympathy. “Do you know what it is?”

A beat of silence. You stare up at him and suckle at his fingers even more desperately, as if you’re hoping it’ll somehow ease your pain further. He chuckles. “No, of course you don’t,” he says. “That was a silly question, wasn’t it? Little baby doesn’t know anything anymore. It’s emptiness, baby. That feeling in your tummy. Bimbos get it sometimes, when they haven’t been filled in a while. You need a dick in your cunt to make it go away.”

“Emptiness,” you echo. “Why?”

“Why?” He repeats. His lips stretch briefly into a small smile. “Because you’re a slut, baby. A stupid slut. You can’t live without dick anymore. When you don’t have it your body starts shutting down.”

Shutting down? No. Nonono. You don’t want that. You don’t want to die. You need— you need…

There’s low laughter from above you; you tilt your head upwards and see Yunho staring down at you with a gaze that feels predatory. “Look at her trying to use her brain,” he grins. “Trying to come up with a thought. She still doesn’t realise she’s too stupid to do that now. Trying so hard, aren’t you?”

“Hard,” you repeat.

“You’ll feel better when you stop, you know,” Yeosang says gently. “When you give up.”

“She won’t have a choice soon,” Seonghwa smiles. “C’mon, precious. Don’t fight it. You wanted this, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Then let it do its job, honey. You’re doing well.”

He’s still talking, you think, but not to you; you listen to the sound of his voice without processing the words and let it pull you down deeper.

Then it’s silent. You think.

Seonghwa adjusts you so you’re lying on your back and staring directly up at him. He pinches your cheek—soft, gentle, then a little harder. You do nothing.

He pokes your nose with the tip of his finger. Nothing.

Waves his hand back and forth, then snaps his fingers. Nothing.

He smiles. Anticipating. “Okay,” he says. “She’s gone.”

“Let’s put her to use, then,” Yeosang says.

Seonghwa stands, keeping you cradled against his chest, and turns to the others. They’ve edged closer too; like they’re closing in and preparing to strike. “How do we want her?”

“Put her on her knees,” Hongjoong decides. “I want her looking up at us. Wanna see the emptiness in her eyes.”

The noise Yunho makes is guttural. Fuck. You knew he’d be the absolute worst for this. “Let me do it,” he grunts. Your head lolls back when you’re pulled from Seonghwa’s arms but Yunho catches and holds it. He puts you down carefully; you slump a little when he first lets go and he tugs your hair, pulling you up straight.

“No,” he growls. “You hold your weight. Just like this. Keep your head up; I taught you your posture.”

“Easy,” Seonghwa says—he’s laughing, though. “She’s just a bimbo, Yunho, stop expecting so much from her.”

“The serum doesn’t affect her physically,” Yunho argues. He snaps his fingers in front of your eyes just as Seonghwa had done; the response he gets is the same. A slow, soft blink like you haven’t even noticed it. “She knows how to walk and sit and stand, she just doesn’t know that’s what she needs to do. She needs to be told. She’ll keel over in a slump if no one tells her not to. Won’t you?”

He’s looking at you again now. You blink, slowly, then nod. Yunho smiles, gripping your jaw in his hand and tilting it forwards a little, crouching down to meet your eyes. “Hi, bimbo.” His expression is soft; his words purred like praises. “Ready to serve me?”

You grunt, soft. More of a whimper. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Don’t make her guess,” Jongho snorts. He’s closer now, sounds closer, but you don’t see him. Wait— where even is everyone? You can’t ascertain who’s who and where they are and what they’re doing. All you see is what’s right there in front of you—Yunho, waiting for an answer you don’t have for a question you barely understood.

You expect the slap. You expect the second one too. “Yes master,” Yunho says firmly. “Say it. Show me you know your place.”

“Yes master,” you repeat.

He grins, then hits you again. “That’s my girl. We’re gonna fuck your throat now, you understand? You’re gonna take us all the way in there. Say yes master.”

You nod, blinking. “Yes master.”

“Good. Open your mouth. Wider.” He nods once he’s satisfied; once your mouth is so far open it’s straining your jaw. “Tongue out,” he orders. “Good. Keep it like that. Don’t move it.”

He keeps you there like that for a while—how long exactly you don’t know. Your jaw aches quickly, not intolerable but certainly not comfortable; you feel the saliva gathering on your tongue then dripping out and onto your thighs.

“That’s it,” Yunho smiles. “Drool. That’s how we want to see you. Keep going.”

You don’t really have a choice; still the way his eyes gleam as your thighs get messier and messier makes you fuzzy with pride. Fuck, you didn’t know it was even possible to drool this much. You register, faintly, the others watching you, making comments to each other you can’t hear or understand. “More,” Yunho says. “Make a mess of yourself. Nasty girl.”

“This is how you really want to be,” Yeosang’s voice comes from somewhere behind you, “underneath all the pretending, this is who you are. Dumb and drooling. You weren’t meant for any more than this.”

There’s a hand on the back of your neck, firm but careful, skin soft on yours. “Yeosang,” you murmur.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he coos. ”You ready to have your mouth fucked? Want master to hold you still?”

“Please.”

He braces two hands around the front of your neck, set under your jaw and holding your head firmly in place. You blink, once, twice, and when you open your eyes again Yunho is sliding his dick past your lips.

He’s already hard; already leaking; Yeosang moves one hand to grip your hair and pulls your head backwards enough for you to look Yunho directly in the eyes.

Yunho is very, very good at playing it cool; at keeping the unbothered, unimpressed demeanour and hiding how affected he truly is.

But over your time with him, with them, you’ve learned to see past the facade. You’ve learned to spot the small signs of pleasure in his face and body and voice; in the way he holds you, talks to you; the way the vein in his neck bulges, Adam's apple pulsing; the way his jaw clenches and his eyes flash when pleasure courses through him.

You’ve learned to find it and use it to guide you to where you want him—to the taste of thick, hot cum dripping down your throat.

He doesn’t ease you into it—he goes straight to the back of your throat like he really doesn’t see you as human at all. Just a fleshlight or a pocket pussy, primed for his pleasure and nothing more. Maybe he’s right to, now at least; with the way Yeosang holds you so firmly in place you have no choice but to take Yunho in his entirety. You gag and splutter and choke around his length every time he hits the back of your throat and none of them acknowledge it at all.

Your vision is blurry, tears welling, then you feel your eyes rolling back like you’ve lost the strength to hold them yourself. You hear Yeosang coo, murmuring something to the others that seems to make them laugh but you can’t quite work out what it is. You just close your eyes and focus on keeping your mouth open; jaw loose so you can take Yunho with minimal pain.

Not that that seems to be among their concerns.

You don’t have to do much—or any—work, with Yunho fucking your throat and Yeosang holding your head in place to stop it lolling back or trying to get away. You just have to take it. You’ve gotten very, very good at that.

The familiar taste—hot, salty, thick—comes sooner than you expect it; you hear distantly the sound of Yunho cracking; a strangled, staggered moan, his thrusts getting faster and more aggressive, Yeosang’s grip tightening to hold you firmer against the force of it—then the taste. The reward. Yunho keeps his dick in your mouth, all the way, your face pressed up against his crotch. “Take it all,” he grits out. “Swallow my fucking cum. Don’t you waste a drop.”

“She knows,” Yeosang says coolly.

“I doubt it crossed her mind not to,” Wooyoung, you think, adds from somewhere further. “She’s programmed for it.”

He’s right. You hadn’t even thought to do anything but swallow.

When Yunho pulls out, groaning, you feel cum dripping out of your mouth and down your chin; feel it sitting on your swollen wet lips. Yunho tuts, gathering the cum on your chin with one finger and pushing it back into your mouth.

“I said don’t waste a drop,” he says. “C’mon, stupid. Swallow it, there we go. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

You nod, dazedly, grunting a little. Yunho pats your cheek. “Good girl.”

There’s hands on you now, more than before, and you feel yourself moving; legs in the air, body turned over, then your face is pressed into the floor and your legs are spread apart. Someone is rubbing up and down the backs of your thighs and a warm, soft palm is cupping your pussy. Oh… that… that feels good. You want more.

You whine, squirming, chasing the slight pressure on your cunt; the hand winds back without a word and lands there in a sharp, scolding smack.

“Bad girl,” Yeosang chides. His finger pushes into your hole, just a little, then pulls back and smacks you again. You whine, crying out, and he clicks his tongue. “So dramatic,” he coos. “Come on, you can handle a few smacks. Don’t act like you’re new to this.”

You nod, grunting, and he hits you again. “Okay, sweetheart,” he croons. “Mingi’s gonna fuck you first. You’ll be good for him, won’t you?”

“Yes’ir,” you mumble, words slurring.

You feel it pressing against your hole; the familiar sensation of Mingi’s hard, heavy cock pushing inside. It’s throbbing, twitching; you can picture the leaking, angry tip pushing past your wet, sticky folds. You squirm, chasing it, trying to push back into it but their hands on you are firm and solid and all you can really do is take it.

“Shit, she’s wet,” Mingi groans, his voice strangled a little. He coos, leaning over you, lips brushing against your skin. “You’re all slippery, baby. Sucking me in so prettily.”

He starts slow. A long, drawn-out thrust, pushing right to your g-spot and staying there. One, two, three, four seconds, each one stretching further and further, then he eases up. Every thrust is harder than the last, building slowly, until his resolve and control seems to crack slightly and he starts rutting into you, fast and sharp and sloppy, like he’s been starved for it.

Your mouth is hanging open, drool dripping past your lips, tongue hanging out of the side like you’ve forgotten what to do with it, forgotten it’s even there. Maybe you have—the only thing you’re even close to conscious of right now is Mingi. His hands, his thrusts, his hips colliding with yours, the sounds of his groans. Mingi fucks you fully and completely, and every thrust feels like a piece of yourself dripping away into his control.

“Shit,” someone hisses. “Look at how she takes it.”

“Is she cumming tonight?” Someone asks.

“Not yet,” comes a reply. “Later, maybe, if she’s good. Bimbos have to earn it; it’s not a right.”

You whine, trying to push your hips backward; Mingi’s hand comes down on the back of your thigh, sharp and stinging, then squeezes the sensitive flesh hard enough to make you sob.

“Look at them,” Mingi grunts. He grabs your hair and yanks it backwards, forcing your head up. “Show them how pretty you are with your cunt full.”

“Mingi,” you mewl. His grip is iron, straining your neck and stinging your scalp, but you’re powerless against it; against him. “Ngh…”

“That’s right,” he coos. “So dumb, aren’t you? Can’t think of anything but dick. Clench around me, don’t you dare let go, you hear?”

You nod, fervent, and he makes a noise of approval, soothing the patch of skin where he’d slapped you.

“I’m going to cum in you,” he says, tone empty. “All the way inside. S’gonna fill up your womb. Wet and messy, just how you like it, yeah?”

“Yes sir,” you squeal. You close your eyes, forcing deep, steady breaths as you await what’s coming.

It comes like a wave—crashing, intense, a warm feeling in your tummy that leaks out of you where you’ve no more room to take it. You feel it dripping out from around his cock, unable to stop it; when he pulls out, grunting something you can’t quite decipher but sounds like praise, a rush of it pours out. He slaps your hole, hard and heavy, making you squeal.

“Dirty,” he says simply. “Good job.”

You feel yourself slumping, legs sliding backwards like they can’t hold up your weight anymore. It’s a slow fall, gradual, but you can’t stop it. It doesn’t really dawn on you to try.

“Hold her up,” someone says. You think it’s San. “She can’t hold her own weight now, hold her up.”

Then there’s hands on you, strong and steady, lifting you up and back into the position you’d been in before; face down, ass up, legs spread. Your entire body feels numb, but at the same time you’ve never been more sensitive; hyper-aware of their touches on your skin and the feeling of your cunt, stuffed full and leaking cum that’s sticking to your thighs.

A warm hand presses against your cunt, another wrapping around your waist. The touch is distant but electric, making you whine, squirming a little. “Shush, baby,” San soothes. “You’re okay. It’s just us. Gonna take such good care of you.”

“San,” you whisper. Fuck—you feel so empty. It hurts.

“I know,” he says. “You liked that? Liked Mingi using your tiny cunt?”

You nod fervently. “Yeah, Sannie.”

“Good girl. I’m gonna fuck your ass now. Gonna take it for me?”

“Take it,” you repeat. You blink, slowly, struggling to find the words—any words. “Gonna take it, master.”

He sounds pleased. “Yes you are.”

There’s a squelching sound, then cold, wet fingers are circling your rim. “Relax,” San murmurs. “You were built for this. Just let it happen.”

His fingers slide past your rim and inside as easily as if you really were made for it. He makes a noise, somewhere between a laugh and a groan, and pushes deeper. “That’s it,” he says. “Look at how loose you are. So ready for it, so easy, good girl.”

There’s softness against your face now, softer than the floor at least; Seonghwa is holding you, you realise, his arms wrapped around you keeping you still and your head cradled in his lap. He smiles down at you, patting your hair. “Good girl,” he says. “So brave. Sannie won’t take long.”

“Gonna hurt?” You ask.

“Not too much,” he answers. “Nothing you can’t take.”

“M’kay. You hum, satisfied, nuzzling your face into his lap. He laughs.

San pushes in slowly, at least, though you get the sense that’s more for your preservation than for your benefit. No use playing with something broken, after all.

It’s not the first time you’ve let them in your ass, but it always feels that way. They’re just big, and your hole is so small and unaccustomed to it that they essentially have to hold you down to prevent your body from fighting back on instinct. But it always feels good, they make it feel so good, and there’s something inherently demeaning about it to you that oddly gets you off.

Even as a punishment, it still makes you hot.

Like that time when you’d been getting a little too big for your britches, when you’d started talking back and challenging them and trying to take more than they were giving you, more than you’d earned, so they’d sentenced you to a week of anal only in an attempt to put you back in your place. The emptiness in your cunt had been painful then, not even allowed to be touched—Yunho took to taping over it when he fucked you just to rub salt in the wound—but the feeling of being stretched and stuffed in a hole you’d never had even an inclination to explore yourself, and having your pussy completely ignored in the process, was thrilling enough to make it bearable.

Still not a punishment you’re particularly eager to repeat, though.

There’s voices, soft and sweet and cooing, talking you through it as San bottoms out; hands in your hair and on your skin soothing the painful stretch that even gallons of lube couldn’t completely white out. You’re chewing on something, you realise; Seonghwa’s pants, you think, where your face is held securely in his lap. He doesn’t mind, though—your oral fixation, that need to have something in your mouth, is something they’re well aware of. Something they themselves nurtured and cultivated and encouraged.

For a while, you were fairly certain they were trying to convince you you’d die without their cocks in your mouth. You’re ashamed to say that it very nearly worked.

“This tight little asshole.” San’s voice is rough, low; you can tell he’s gritting his teeth, jaw clenched, and it makes you rather proud, knowing you’re affecting him in this way. You love pleasing them—being good and tight and warm around their cocks.

San starts sliding in and out, not quite slowly, but slow enough that you have a little room to adjust to it. Seonghwa is talking to you; you hear his voice, low and close and comforting, but you don’t know what he’s saying. You don’t think you need to; he sounds kind, he sounds safe and he sounds warm, and that’s enough to make everything else easier.

After a while, when your hole has adjusted to him and the stretch is less overwhelming, you manage to take in your surroundings a little more. Not clearly, but more; Seonghwa holding you in his lap, cradling your head, fingers pushing in and out of your mouth lazily. His dick, hard and pulsing, pressed against the side of your face through the fabric of his pants.

The others gathered around. Mingi, already hard again, stroking himself to the sight of you. Yunho filming, phone in hand.

You smile for the camera. He grins.

“How does it feel?” Seonghwa asks. “Is Sannie fucking you good, baby?”

Right as he speaks San pulls out almost all the way, only to force himself back in again, hard and sharp and sudden; you scream, almost blacking out, the pain and the pleasure too much to take. Seonghwa’s pants feel wet now, probably covered in your tears and snot and drool, but he doesn’t care. He never has—this isn’t the first time you’ve soaked through their clothes. Drool, cum, even your piss on occasion—sometimes you think they’re trying to force you to make as much of a mess as possible. You definitely think it gets them off faster when you do.

“God, look at her face.” Wooyoung’s voice comes like a moan, or a whine—loud, a little shaky, like his composure is breaking. “All blissed out. And loving it, loving getting passed around like a little hooker.”

“She basically is one,” Jongho says. “Or a sugar baby or something. We take care of everything for her, give her everything she wants, pay for everything—she just has to look pretty and bend over.”

“I guess she is one, then. Geez, how dirty.”

“She’s dirty,” Yunho says. “But she’s ours. We like her like that.”

“We do,” Wooyoung agrees. He sounds thrilled—exhilarated just from seeing and talking about you like this. “Dirty but ours, I like that.”

“She takes it so fucking good,” San grunts. He lands a solid smack on the back of your thigh, then another—you barely even register it. He groans. “Like a fuck machine, with her head empty like this. Wish we could keep her like this forever.”

“I’m going in her mouth,” Jongho says suddenly. “Can I go in her mouth?”

“Of course,” Hongjoong says. “Wooyoung, film her from the front. I want to remember all of this.”

You’re adjusted again, head lifted, placed down on something; then something big and hard and warm is pushing past your lips. There’s a mumble—you catch the words that trick with her mouth and saw it in the video—then something pokes at the top of your jaw, a finger you think, and your mouth falls open by itself. All the way. And stays there.

Another effect, it seems like.

“There we go,” Seonghwa coos. “God, what a great little serum this is. Really primes you for a fucking. Keep your mouth open like that, we’ll close it when you’re done.”

You don’t feel like you have a choice. You honestly don’t know if you’d even know how to close it properly.

Jongho’s hands fist into your hair, gripping tight as he starts to thrust. He’s big, thick, and accommodating him is always a struggle—tonight, though, it feels a little easier. A little more natural. As he forces himself to the back of your throat, holding you there until you start to splutter, you feel like this is what you were meant to be.

Is that an effect of the serum, too?

Jongho rarely cums in your mouth. He much prefers to do it on your face or your chest; to see you defiled, to see you messy and covered in his cum, your skin sullied with it, smearing with the sweat and drool that’s tricked down to your chest.

Tonight he does the same; he goes for your chest this time, pulling you up by the hair to get a good aim before thick ropes of cum start to land between your tits. You push your chest out, eager for more, eager to catch it all, and he grins.

“Nasty,” he says. “And all mine.”

“How much more can she take?” Hongjoong asks. “She seems lucid still.”

“She does,” Wooyoung says, and he doesn’t sound pleased. “San, fuck her harder. We need her dumber than this.”

San grunts, obliging; his hand presses down on your mouth, pulling your head back and muffling sounds you barely register making. He’s leaning over you now, it seems like; his lips graze over your ears, nipping and catching the skin on his teeth. “Take it,” he grunts. “No noise. No thinking. No struggling. Just go limp and take it.”

You nod; he rewards you with two fingers slipping into your mouth and pushing down on your tongue. You suck at them frantically, overwhelmed, and he makes a noise of satisfaction. “Just like that,” he encourages. “I’m gonna cum in your ass, bimbo, and you’re gonna hold it there. You’re gonna clench your hole til we can get you plugged up. Yes?”

“Yes’ir,” you slur. “G’na hold it.”

He hums, then his fingers leave your mouth and your head is being pressed against the floor, held in place by a pressure on your head you can’t identify, and you’re completely trapped, completely immobile as San fucks you towards his orgasm. You can always tell when it’s coming; he starts whining a little, his grunts and moans going higher as he chases pleasure. His thrusts do the opposite—they get harder, faster, more brutal, less restrained strength and more uncontrolled lust on a level that feels primal.

He cums with a shout, like a roar or a battle cry from the bottom of his chest, rasping and breaking as he fucks you through it.

And then it’s over.

There’s hands on your cheeks, spreading them apart; San’s dick is a solid presence in your hole until he starts to pull away, sliding out slowly and steadily like he’s easing you into (or out of, in this case) it. “Hold it,” he murmurs. “Clench.”

You do. You only have to for a second or so; then there’s something else, something cold and wet and metal pressing in, and you recognise it as your favourite stainless steel buttplug. You hope it’s the one with the jewel on the end; the pink sparkly one that always makes you feel dolled up. You love it so much you sometimes forgo panties or even clothes altogether when you’re wearing it, just to show it off to them as much as possible.

“Pink?” You ask as it settles into place. A warm hand rests on your cheek and someone laughs, knowing exactly what you’re asking.

“Yes, baby,” Yunho says. “Your favourite pink plug. You look like such a little princess.”

You smile; a weak, dazed, dumb smile, your eyes half shut, and someone laughs. Maybe more than one.

“How do you feel?” Seonghwa asks. “Tired? Need a break?”

“No,” you reply, suspiciously quickly. “No, sir. Need… keep going.”

“Feeling empty again, aren’t you?” He smiles. “The plug’s not doing it for you? Need a cock to keep you calm?”

“Please.”

“Is she still wet?”

Your hips are lifted up, aching pussy lips spread apart, warm fingers running through your folds, then a noise of confirmation. “Dripping.”

“Turn her over,” Seonghwa says. “She’s been in this position for long enough. We’ll put her on her back.”

It’s Wooyoung who was behind you, you find out when you’re turned over; he looms above you now with spark and intention in his eyes. He swipes his tongue across his bottom lip, and his nostrils flare.

All but taking a bite out of you.

“I’ll tell you something,” he smiles. “I never thought the sight of Jongho’s cum could make me so turned on.”

“Jesus,” Jongho laughs. “Shut up and fuck her, man.”

Wooyoung huffs, rolling his eyes, lips puffed out in an exaggerated pout. “Fine,” he says, drawing it out a little.

Your legs are lifted up and wrapped around his waist, interlocked against his back. Your hips are pulled upwards by the position so they’re just about level with his crotch. “Keep your legs here,” he instructs. “Say yes master.”

“Yes, master,” you echo, obediently. He locks one hand under you, holding your weight by the waist, and spits on the other. Then again. And again—rubbing it up and down his shaft each time until it’s wet and slippery.

You’re still wet too, you can feel it—though maybe that’s cum dripping out of you, to be fair—but still you feel relieved.

Wooyoung tends to bottom out quickly; he’s not the type to go slow, not the type that really can once he’s finally sunk himself into you. You’re just too warm, too soft, too tight; he needs all of him inside as soon as he gets a taste of it.

His other arm wraps around your waist, too, holding you up the same way, taking the pressure off you to hold your position as he starts to fuck you.

It means the only thing you have to think or care or be aware of is what you’re feeling now—his bruising grip on your skin, his cock buried in your sensitive cunt and slamming against your g-spot like he has something to prove.

“Smile, baby,” he says; it takes a moment for the words to register. “You’re still being filmed, pretty girl. Gave the camera to Jongho. Say hi.”

You don’t know where to look—or how to look, at this point; you whine helplessly, desperately, and someone laughs then gently grabs your head and tilts it to the right.

Sure enough, there he is—pointing the phone directly at you. You stare at it, blinking slowly; your body moves and jerks violently with every thrust, and you feel your tits bouncing up and down with the movements.

Jongho is staring at them, blatantly. You smile.

“Baby,” Wooyoung says, a little firmer now. “I told you to say hi to the camera. Wave, or something. Stop being stupid.”

Oh, yeah. “Hi,” you squeak out.

“There we go.” Jongho’s eyes flicker upwards to meet yours, then return to the phone screen, monitoring the video. “Sweet little pornstar. She can lift her legs higher, Wooyoung.”

You can; you’ve worked on it with them. Wooyoung grabs your legs where they’re wrapped around his waist and lifts them higher until they’re slung over his shoulders and hardly any of your body is on the ground except for your head.

It’s like you're floating—but it’s anything but gentle.

And he gets so much deeper like this

“H-hurts,” you whine. “A-ah, Woo, it hurts.”

“Does it?” He asks lightly. “You look like you’re enjoying yourself, though.”

“She loves it,” San says. “Don’t listen to her, Wooyoung, she doesn’t know what she’s saying. She’s just babbling ‘cause she doesn’t know what to do with herself. Just look at how wet she is; making a mess all over the place. That doesn’t come from anything but pleasure.”

Wooyoung groans. “You’re right. And she’s fucking clinging to me, too. Tightens every time I hit the spot. You’re not slick, bunny.”

You never really have been—not with them, at least. They’ve always had a talent for that; their ability to read you, to understand and unravel you even when you’d rather they didn’t, was one of the things that drew you to them.

You’re not certain how much time passes like that; you, spread out, folded almost in half and entirely helpless; Wooyoung’s fingers digging into your waist as he pushes in and out while the others spit praises and dirt and filth at you. You lose track of what they’re saying or doing; all you can do is take and feel and float on the feeling.

You’ve never felt less in control of yourself. You’ve also never felt less of a need to be.

Everything about this—the helplessness, the loss of control, the care, the weightlessness of having nothing on your shoulders—feels like what you were meant to be.

“She’s still going deeper,” someone hisses. “Fuck, how is she still going deeper into it?”

“That’s it.” Seonghwa’s voice is close enough and gentle enough in that distinctly Seonghwa way for you to distinguish. “Keep slipping. Sink into it baby, good girl. So dumb, aren’t you?”

“Dumb,” you repeat. “H—Hwa, I—”

“I know,” he hushes you. “You’re making Wooyoung feel so good, baby. Taking it like such a little champ.”

“So good,” Wooyoung grunts. “Fuck, I love you.”

Even after taking Mingi, the stretch of Wooyoung’s dick inside your cunt burns and stings only just short of painfully. His grip on you hurts as well, fingers digging into fragile tender skin without care, but there’s too many things happening to your body right now to focus too much on any in particular.

“Hold on.” Seonghwa’s palm presses against your cheek, then two fingers push past your lips and into your mouth. You suck at them, instantly and instinctively, and he coos. “There we go,” he hums. “Something to suckle on.”

“She needs something in her mouth, huh?” Someone says, laughing lowly.

“She needs it even when she’s not drugged up,” Seonghwa replies. “But this… look at her, sucking away at it. She looks so innocent you almost forget she’s being fucked open right now.”

“I’m about to cum,” Wooyoung says suddenly, voice straining.

“Then cum,” Seonghwa responds. His tone is light, and his eyes don’t stray from you, watching the way you suck at his fingers whilst Wooyoung starts to speed up again. You whine loudly at the new sensations, not really understanding them, and Seonghwa runs his other hand across your hair tenderly. “Almost there,” he murmurs. “Wooyoung’s gonna fill you up, keep you nice and warm. Maybe he’ll give you a baby, too. Would you like that, honey?”

You nod, moaning at the thought of it; of being full and swollen with their seed, of being knocked up, of carrying their child. Fuck, you want that so fucking badly. Seonghwa grins; there’s a dry laugh from somewhere too far for you to really comprehend, but it sounds like Yunho. You think. “Seonghwa, don’t say these things while she’s drugged up. She doesn’t know what she’s agreeing to.”

“She’s fine,” Seonghwa dismisses him. “We have her on birth control anyway. It’s just talk, isn’t it, sweet girl?”

You nod again, and Seonghwa smiles, seeming satisfied. Just as he does, Wooyoung shouts, sharp and strangled, and heat spreads in your lower tummy. You squeeze your eyes shut, mouth falling open around Seonghwa’s fingers, riding it out as Wooyoung fucks you through his orgasm. There’s low voices talking you through it, but you don’t know what they’re saying. You don’t care. Everything feels static, your legs locked around Wooyoung’s shoulders, the pleasure that’s been slowly building in your tummy while you were too cock-dumb to comprehend it finally breaking through the haze and making itself known. Fuck, your entire body feels electric, buzzing; you whine, a strangled sound, just as Wooyoung starts to pull out.

He does it slowly. Dragging it out like he’s torturing you on purpose. By the time he’s pulled out completely, a rush of fluid spilling out of you after him, you’re sobbing around Seonghwa’s fingers. Lips press against your forehead, kissing your flushed, sweat-soaked skin, and you cry weakly against it.

“Hwa,” you whimper.

“I’m here,” he hums. “Oh darling, were you feeling good? Did you finally remember you can cum too?”

“Yeah,” you wail. “Hwa.”

“I know,” he croons. “Oh, you poor little thing. Woo was so mean, pulling out just as you were on the edge, wasn’t he?”

“Tummy hurts,” you sniffle. “Need to…”

“You’ll be okay. I’m sure someone will help you.”

“Empty,” you say dazedly. Everything is blurry, fuzzy, out of focus. “Hwa.”

You’re lifted then, strong arms picking you up from where you’re spread out and defined in a heap and planting you gently down on Seonghwa’s lap. He takes his fingers out of your mouth and uses them to rub lazily at your pussy, gathering the mess between your folds, then pushes them back into your mouth again. It tastes salty, creamy; a little bitter. You lick it up like you’re fucking starving.

“She could live off this,” someone says. “Look at her, she loves the taste.”

By the time Seonghwa’s fingers are finally clean, nothing more for you to lick up no matter how hard you try, your eyelids are heavy, heavier by the second. Only then do you finally notice how exhausted you really are; how it’s seeped into your bones and sunken into your skin like a parasite you can’t rid yourself of.

Your pussy is still throbbing, though. Wetness still slides down your thighs. Your mouth still tries to pull Seonghwa’s fingers in deeper so you can choke on them against the back of your throat.

“Confusing, huh?” Seonghwa hums. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. It’s just your special medicine doing its job. It makes sure you’re always ready to be fucked; keeps you loose and wet and begging for it, stops you from tightening up again. That’s the last thing we’d want. You’re alright.”

Oh. That explains it; why the stretch when they slid in, while still noticeable, was easier and less painful than usual; why it’s felt like your holes were lubricating themselves; why you’ve been so fucking needy for it no matter how fucked out or exhausted you are. It all makes sense now.

“You’ll be throbbing all week.” Hongjoong comes to sit next to your head, crouched down, running his hand across your forehead. You whine, reaching for him—you miss him, and you love him, and he’s always so warm and patient and he always fucks and touches and disciplines you just the way you need it, and has he been very involved this evening? It doesn’t feel like it—but your hands are too heavy to hold yourself. Hongjoong, always knowing what you need, takes your hands in his and holds them to his chest himself.

You can feel his heart beating through his shirt. Feel his warmth; the outline of his muscles constricting as he breathes in and out. You sigh, contented, and he smiles. “You’ll be throbbing all week,” he says again. “Even when you’re sleeping. To make sure you don’t get any ideas about telling us no. Keeps you ready for it. You’ll be able to ignore it most of the time; not that you’ll need to, though. We’ll be keeping you very well fucked this week.”

“All week?” You echo, your voice barely a murmur. “Th…throbbing all week?”

“Sounds scary, huh?” Seonghwa chuckles. “You’ll be alright. That’s just how bimbos are made. It’s part of your biology, honey.”

“Are you throbbing now?” Hongjoong asks. Before you can answer—try to, at least—he presses his hand against your cunt, cupping it in his palm and fingers. It’s when he pulls away, nodding, a curious hum from between his lips, that you realise it wasn’t a question for you. Phew. “You are,” he says. “Little pussy is pulsing. Like a heartbeat. She could take more easily.”

“Ay, she’s sleepy though,” someone says. Cold fingers pinch at your cheeks, making you wince. “Shouldn’t we let her rest?”

“She hasn’t even cum yet.”

“She doesn’t need to,” Seonghwa says. “And it won’t make her feel any better anyway.”

“I say she cums tomorrow. Or today, if we decide to keep fucking her.”

“I agree with Yunho.” Hongjoong puts your hands back down, tucking them against your chest, but doesn’t let go. Just holds them there, rubbing small circles into your skin with his thumbs. “There’s no reason for her to cum before we’ve all had a turn. Is there, baby?”

You’re just staring at him. He clicks his fingers, right in front of your eyes; you jump slightly, delayed a little, then nod. “There we go,” he laughs. “See, even the whore agrees.”

Your eyelids are drooping now—but with everything lagging like this, you don’t realise until everything fades to black. You frown, brows furrowing in confusion, trying to catch up, and they laugh.

“Oh, look at her. Did we tire her out that much?”

“Poor thing’s dozing off.”

“No wonder. She’s taken a lot.”

It’s Seonghwa, as it quite often is, who makes the final decision. You’ve noticed the eldest two are also often the most level headed, and the rest of them seem to defer to them on that basis as well. “We’ll let her sleep,” he says. His voice is quiet, soft, like he’s trying not to wake you, but it brokers no room for argument. “She agreed to let us use her when she sleeps, too, but this is the first day. She needs to adjust. She’ll take the rest of us in the morning, then we can think about letting her cum. Alright?”

By the time the others answer, you’re already out like a light.

merry christmasssss my babies!! there wasn’t as much hongjoong as i’d have liked in this chapter, but he’ll be featuring prominently in the next one!! as will all the others