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Karina's eyes widened at the sight of an African refugees massive BBC. With a shaky hand she reached out to grab it, feeling the strong pulse throbbing against her palm. Her mouth fell open when she began to stroke, watching it flop in her hands a bit, realizing he wasn't even fully hard.

Karina gasped, drooling as she stroked with both hands. She felt the carpet against her knees, and the touch of his ebony thighs around her torso. She leaned forward, pressing her pursed lips to the head to give it a tender kiss.

Her tongue pressed forward, tasting her first black cock, inhaling the musk that filled her nose. Her right eye twitched and she felt the thoughts within her head melting into a a warm wave of bliss rolling down her spine.

Hawk tuah! Karina spit on that thang and covered it in a layer of glistening sheen that her hands stroked into the dark African meat. Her lips wrapped around the head, eagerly parting to let it slide across her wet tongue and into the back of her throat.

GLUCK! GLUCK! AAH! GLUCK! She started to blow him between loud gasps for air. She could only fit half into her mouth, stroking him desperately with both hands covered in her own spit. The bull groaned, placing both hands on her head to hold her in place, preventing her from lifting off of his BBC.

His hips thrusted upward, jamming his big black cock into the back of her throat with force. Karina let out a muffled scream, but the bull kept going, grunting as he used her throat like a fleshlight for his own pleasure.

Her hands slapped at his thighs and abs, begging him to stop, but only motivated him to keep going. "I'm here to fuck all the women!" he groaned, pushing Karina down on his cock until she was gagging violently, her eyes rolling back until they were nearly solid white.

He gave her cheek a slap, then released her and watched Karina gasp for air, her chest heaving as she sat back against the coffee table behind her. Her throat stung as she panted, wiping the spit from her chin that had soaked into her black REFUGEES WELCOME shirt with a black fist in the middle of the Korean flag.

The bull stood up and grabbed her hair in his hand, motioning for her to follow him. "No!" he said when she tried to stand up, "I'll walk you like the slut you are."

Karina crawled on all fours beside him, following with her heavy tits sagging down against the fabric of her shirt. Her pale, naked ass in the air swayed side-to-side as he led her across the room, passing by other bulls who were hammering black cock into screaming Korean women.

The sliding door of the patio opened and Karina felt the hard concrete against her palms and knees as he led her to a beach chair and pointed for her to get on it. Karina climbed up and felt his hands on her waist, flipping her onto her back.

"Let me have those big ass titties," he said, pushing the shirt up to reveal her braless, pale, fat tits. He slapped his wet BBC between them and Karina moaned deeply, feeling the power and heft of his black cock as it thumped against her soft skin.

"Mmm, fuck my big Korean tits!" Karina blurted out, lifting her hands to the sides of her chest to press them together around the ebony pole between them.

Karina watched a pair of hands coil around the bulls sides, and then the face of Giselle smiling down at her. "That's it, fuck those big tits," Giselle said to him in a soft, encouraging voice. "They're what you came here for, aren't they? Big asian tits and tight little Korean pussies to breed."

The bull groaned, his hips thrusting back and forth between Karina's fleshy melons engulfing his dark cock. She felt the head poking at her neck with every thrust, peeking out from under the top of her shirt and occasionally trying to slip under her choker necklace.

Karina's head spun with lust, her toes curling the moment that Giselle lowered her face to her pussy to start licking it. Karina let out a long, low moan of satisfaction, closing her eyes and arching her back.

Giselle shoved a couple fingers in without warning, working them back and forth inside Karina, her thumb working circles on her sensitive clit to drive her mad. Karina breathed deeply in sharp breaths, her thighs beginning to shake, chest turning red.

The bull reached down with both hands and wrapped them around her neck, his thumbs pressing the head of his black cock against her throat as he fucked her busty chest. Karina's eyes rolled, but the grip on her squishy boobs never relaxed, and she kept them pressed hard around the BBC pumping between them.

Karina let out a moan, kicking her foot as Giselle shoved her tongue into her cunt, drilling into it with her fingers and nuzzling her nose right up against the clit. It was too much for Karina, her head was swimming, and she felt like she would pass out from the pleasure.

The bull pressed down harder and Karina felt his weight on her throat, choking her until her cheeks turned a rosy red hue. She wanted to grab at his wrists, but she kept her hands around her tits, refusing to let go until he told her to.

The bull groaned as his BBC slipped under the choker, pinning his head in place as he began to spurt a series of hot ropes across Karina's chin and neck. She felt the pulsing his shaft, the flowing hot ropes of cum shooting up her chin before running down her neck and into her dark hair.

He gave her a few more pumps, then pulled his BBC back and slapped it wetly against each breast before leaving her and Giselle. "I'm gonna..." Karina panted, pinching her nipples and twisting them, pulling her sagging breasts upward with a scream.

Karina began to squirt all over Giselle's face, coating her lips and tongue, and Giselle ate it up hungrily while continuing to lick and finger until Karina fell limp with rolling eyes.

Giselle crawled up Karina's body, hovering over her with cum dripping from her lips and chin, glistening brightly. She lowered her head to lick the cum from Karina's neck, lapping it up and ending with a soft bite into her flesh.

She dragged her tongue along Karina's throat, up her chin, and then to her lips, sliding into her mouth to deposit the bull's load. Karina's eyes rolled in circles, she moaned deeply, a hand reaching up to pull Giselle in deeper.

They swapped the load back and forth with sloppy open-mouthed kisses, their tongues twisting together, pushing against each other, lips meeting until the cum had all been swallowed.

Giselle pulled back and caressed Karina's cheek, looking deep into her eyes. They kissed one last time, and Giselle grabbed a handful of Karina's left tit to squeeze as she did so.

The night was still young and the black breeding party had just started, there were more men inside waiting for their welcome to Korea, and the two of them were more than happy to give it to them.

Suddenly, I feel his hand on my shoulder. It is a light touch, almost accidental, but to me, it’s as if a red-hot brand touched my skin. The brush of his fingers against the fabric of my blouse causes my nipples to harden instantly, projecting themselves with a painful tension against the clothes. I hate my body for this; I hate that it reacts with this nervous, suffocating arousal toward the man who has turned me into his toy. I feel dirty, as if there were an invisible stain spreading from my chest to my ass—a mark of ownership that only he can see.

He leans in a bit more, just enough for the heat of his breath to brush the curve of my ear. He says nothing else, but that silence is the cruelest tool of all. It is a reminder of everything we keep quiet, of the nightly agreements and the humiliation I accept day after day so that the rest of the world keeps believing I am the perfect daughter.

"What are you thinking about, dear?" he whispers, and his voice vibrates on my skin like a forbidden caress.

I close my eyes tight. In that instant, the sound of the kitchen vanishes. The scent of tea merges with the rancid smell of that hotel, and the warm afternoon light is replaced by the suffocating dimness of a memory I cannot erase. I feel the floor disappear beneath my feet and find myself sucked backward, back to the exact moment where my life fractured.

I feel the wetness on my thighs again, the pressure of strange bodies against mine, and that electric fear that paralyzed me for the first time. I go back to the beginning. Back to the first time I understood that my body no longer belonged to me, but was instead the price of a secret that was consuming me alive.

The cold early-morning air hit my face as soon as I closed the taxi door, but it wasn't enough to put out the fire I still felt beneath my skin. I walked toward the entrance of the house feeling like an intruder in my own life, my steps clumsy and my breathing heavy. I felt dirty; I smelled of tobacco, other people's perfumes, and that raw, animal scent of shared sex that seemed to have leaked into my pores. But as I moved through the dark hallway, an electric and treacherous sensation began to run down my spine, making me tremble—not from fear, but from a residual desire that felt suffocating.

I entered the house in silence, avoiding any noise that might alert my mother or my stepfather. But the silence only served to amplify what was happening inside my body. Every time I took a step, I felt the rub of my thighs and the friction of the clothes against my skin, and that simple contact was like an electric shock.

My tits were hypersensitive, almost painful. My nipples were so erect and tense that every time the fabric of my blouse brushed the tips, I let out a short, muffled gasp. It was an unbearable sensation: I hated myself for having sold my body, but at the same time, the memory of those hands squeezing my tits hard, molding them to their whim while I moaned, made a liquid heat begin to flow down my belly. I felt like a hypocrite; I told myself I was disgusted, but my body kept vibrating on the frequency of pleasure.

I reached my room and closed the door with my heart hammering against my ribs: bum-bum... bum-bum. I leaned against the cold wood and closed my eyes, and that was when the image of the threesome returned with violent clarity. I remembered the weight of the bodies on top of me, the feeling of being open and exposed, and the way my ass felt right now: hot, throbbing with a dull heaviness that reminded me I had been possessed without mercy. I could still feel the viscous trail between my legs, that residual wetness that made me feel marked, as if the seal of those men were still stuck to my pussy.

I put my hand in my pocket and touched the bills. The paper money was dry and cold, but touching it sent a wave of forbidden excitement through my entire body. It was the adrenaline of risk, the euphoria of having done something so degrading and having been paid for it. I felt dirty, yes, but it was a dirtiness that ignited my nerves.

I let myself slide down the door until I was sitting on the floor, legs open and breathing erratic. I brought a hand to my neck, touching the skin where someone had left a wet, strong kiss. Touching that mark, I let out a moan that echoed in the empty walls of my room. God, it was so disgusting to think that I had become an object, but at the same time, the idea of being desired with such voracity—of being the center of that carnal chaos—produced an electric shock that left me breathless.

I stayed there in the dim light, fighting against myself. I hated the submission, but I loved the feeling of power that came from knowing I could seduce and charge for it. My body was a battlefield where disgust and lust fought violently. As I stared at the dark ceiling, I felt my pussy pulsing with a dull urgency, claiming more of what had just happened. I was broken, I was stained, but I was more alive and aroused than ever in my life.

I didn't know that this same arousal, this secret hunger for the forbidden, would be the leash Mr. Park would use to drag me into the abyss. In that moment, I could only feel the heat of my own legs and the echo of the moans still resonating in my head like a sinful song.

The following days were a slow and delicious torture. I moved through the house like a ghost, inhabiting a body that still felt electric. Every morning, the act of dressing was a ritual of self-torture; I slid garments over my skin and felt how the fabric rubbed against my tits, which remained sensitive, almost inflamed, from the games of the trio. Sometimes I would stare at my own reflection in the bathroom mirror, observing the curve of my ass and wondering if anyone else could see the invisible mark that act had left on me. I felt powerful, charged with a forbidden energy that made my steps slower, my hips heavier, while I kept the stack of bills like an amulet of filth under my mattress.

But then, the atmosphere of the house began to change. The air became dense, almost viscous, and I started to feel that I was no longer alone in my secret.

It was a Tuesday afternoon when I felt the first prick of reality. I was in the kitchen, pouring a glass of water, when I heard Mr. Park's footsteps approaching. It wasn't the usual walk of a stepfather; it was a paused, deliberate rhythm—the step of someone who knows exactly where his prey is. I froze, glass half-full, feeling the back of my neck prickle violently.

"You smell different today, Chaeyeon," his voice arrived as a glacial whisper right behind my ear.

The impact was physical. I felt an electric shock shoot down my spine and end in an involuntary spasm between my legs. I turned slowly, heart hammering against my ribs: bum-bum... bum-bum. He was inches away from me, leaning against the counter, looking at me with dark eyes that didn't see the "good girl," but instead scanned my body with an obscene slowness. His pupils were dilated, fixed on the movement of my throat as I swallowed with difficulty.

"What do you mean?" I managed to articulate, though my voice sounded broken, a thread of sound that betrayed my panic.

He didn't respond immediately. Instead, he moved one millimeter closer, invading my personal space until I could smell the sandalwood and cold tobacco mixing with my own scent. He cast a fleeting glance downward, toward my tits which were rising and falling agitatedly under the blouse, and then returned to my eyes with a smile that didn't reach his pupils.

"You smell like that cheap soap from the downtown hotels," he commented with a terrifying calmness. "That aroma of chlorine and damp sheets... it’s curious how it clings to the skin, isn't it? Especially when one gives themselves over with such... passion."

I felt the floor disappear beneath my feet. The world became blurred and a dull buzzing filled my ears. The mention of the hotel wasn't a guess; it was a sentence. I ran out of air, feeling my larynx close as panic flooded my nervous system. But the most disgusting part was my body's reaction: in the face of pure terror and the humiliation of being discovered, I felt my pussy pulsing with a violent urgency. The adrenaline of fear mixed with residual arousal, creating a toxic cocktail that left me trembling on the spot.

"I... I don't know what you're talking about," I lied, though I knew it was useless. My voice was a pathetic whisper.

Mr. Park let out a dry chuckle and slowly walked away, but before leaving the kitchen, he brushed his hand against my hip—a fleeting touch that made my legs buckle.

"There's no need to lie, dear. I prefer it when you're honest about your... appetites," he whispered, and the sound of his footsteps receding left a suffocating void in the room.

I stayed there, leaning against the counter, legs open and breathing broken. I was terrified, yes, but I also felt an electric spark running through my thighs. I felt naked, exposed, as if Mr. Park had ripped off my clothes with just his words and left me there, exhibiting my tits and ass to his judgment. Paranoia installed itself in me like a parasite: now I knew that every time I passed him, he was imagining how I was in that hotel, how I moaned, and how my skin felt.

I was no longer the hunter of the secret; I was the prey. And worst of all was knowing that while fear consumed me, a dark part of me was starting to wish he would finish closing the trap.

When I heard my name echo from the hallway, I felt the air thicken, becoming almost solid around my lungs. "Chaeyeon, come to the study for a moment." Mr. Park's voice wasn't a request; it was a command wrapped in velvet, a low frequency that made every hair on my body stand up. My first reaction was pure panic; I felt an electric shock shoot down my spine, leaving my legs trembling and my mind blank. I knew this moment would come. Since that day at the hotel, I felt as if I were walking on thin glass, and now, finally, I heard it shattering beneath my feet.

I walked toward the office with slow, heavy steps, as if dragging an invisible chain tied to my neck. As I moved through the hallway, my internal monologue was a chaos of voices: "Don't go in," "Run now while you can," "What if he already told Mom?". But beyond the fear, there was a dull anguish thinking about Chaeryeong. We knew we had crossed a line together; we shared that stain, that secret that bound us in a dark and desperate complicity. Thinking that he could use this to separate us or destroy us both caused a visceral nausea.

Upon opening the door, the scent of sandalwood and cold tobacco hit my face with suffocating force. The study was in dim light; the closed blinds let through only a few threads of white light that cut the room into strips, as if I were already entering a cell. I saw Mr. Park leaning against his oak desk, observing me with a predatory calm that made me feel small, insignificant, almost transparent.

And then, the sound happened that finally broke me. Click.

The lock closed. That small metallic noise resonated in my ears like the fall of a guillotine. I froze in the middle of the room, arms pressed to my body and pupils dilated by animal terror. The silence that followed was dense, interrupted only by the erratic rhythm of my own breathing: short inhalations... forced pauses... exhalations that sounded like contained sobs.

He didn't move immediately. He took his time to look at me—a slow and obscene scan that started at my feet and climbed slowly up my legs, pausing on the curve of my ass before moving toward my chest. I felt his eyes stripping me, tearing away my clothes with a single gaze. He knew exactly what he was seeing: not the perfect daughter, but the girl who had enjoyed carnal chaos alongside her sister.

"You look so scared, Chaeyeon," he whispered, starting to walk toward me with calculated slowness. "It’s fascinating how your body reacts when you know you no longer have anywhere to hide."

He stopped right behind me, invading my personal space until I could feel the heat of his chest against my back. He didn't touch me, but the pressure of his presence was so strong that I felt my knees give way. He forced me to remain trapped between him and the edge of the desk, leaving me with no exit.

"Let's talk about that little trip you two took," he continued, leaning in so his warm breath brushed my ear. "That hotel... those white sheets that got so dirty. I wonder if your sister feels the same urgency as you right now to keep the silence."

The indirect mention of us was like a lash. I felt the world spin and my heart hit my ribs with brute force: bum-bum... bum-bum. But then the worst happened: while horror consumed me, I felt an electric shock of forbidden arousal running through my pelvis. My pussy pulsed violently against the fabric of my pants; the humiliation of knowing he had seen us both, that he knew exactly how we moaned and how we surrendered, triggered a treacherous somatic response. I hated myself for this; I hated that fear and degradation ignited a fire in my gut that I couldn't put out.

"You're trembling," he murmured, and this time he did touch me. He slid a hand around my waist, squeezing the flesh of my hip with possessive force. "And you're wet, aren't you? I love that your body is so honest, even though your mouth wants to pretend innocence."

I closed my eyes tight, letting out a broken gasp. I was totally annihilated. There was no longer any room for negotiation. Mr. Park didn't just possess the secret of that trio; now he possessed my nerves and my physical reactions. I felt like a porcelain doll that he had just broken to see how it looked inside.

"Now," he decreed, his voice becoming a glacial mandate, "let's see how obedient a girl can be when she has so much to lose."

I stayed there, trapped between the cold wood of the desk and the suffocating heat of Mr. Park’s body. My breathing was a disaster; short gasps that made my chest rise and fall with an erratic speed, hitting the fabric of my blouse. I could feel his gaze nailed to me, not as a caress, but as a scalpel opening me up, analyzing every corner of my fear. The silence of the study was so dense I could hear the dull throb of my own heart hammering in my ears: bum-bum... bum-bum.

"Take off your clothes," he ordered. His voice wasn't a shout; it was a glacial whisper, an administrative and dry instruction that left me frozen.

The world seemed to stop for an instant. My mind screamed in protest—a visceral reaction of rejection that made me shrink into myself. This can't be happening, I thought, while a wave of panic ran down my spine. But then I remembered Chaeryeong’s gaze, the shared secret and the possibility of him letting it all out. That idea acted as an anchor; the fear for my sister was stronger than the disgust for myself.

With fingers trembling violently, I brought my hands to the buttons of my blouse. The first button resisted; my nails slipped on the fabric due to the cold sweat that had begun to bead on my palms. I let out a muffled moan—a mix of frustration and terror—while feeling Mr. Park's gaze fixed on my hands. He said nothing, but his silence was an unbearable pressure forcing me to hurry.

Finally, the button gave way. Then the second. And the third.

As the fabric opened, the cold air of the study hit my skin, provoking a shiver that made me arch my back. I slid the blouse off my shoulders and let it fall to the floor with a dull sound—almost imperceptible, but to me, it sounded like the fall of a guillotine. I stood there in only my bra, exposing my arms and stomach to the raw light of the blinds. I felt the air burning me, but what burned more was knowing he was enjoying every second of my humiliation.

"Slower, Chaeyeon," he murmured, his voice vibrating against my neck. "I want to see how you strip away everything. I want to see the expression on your face when you realize you no longer have anything to hide."

I turned slightly, heart galloping in my throat, and reached for the back closure of my bra. The click of the hook releasing was the loudest sound in the room. When I let the garment drop, my tits were exposed to the glacial air of the office. They were small, firm, and pale under the white light; I felt my nipples harden instantly from the cold and fear, projecting forward like two pink, tense pearls. I felt grotesque and vulnerable, an animal stripped naked before its hunter.

But the worst was yet to come. My hands moved down to the waist of my pants. The touch of my own fingers against my skin provoked an electric shiver that ended in a sting of wetness between my legs. I hated myself. I hated that while terror consumed me, my pussy reacted with a treacherous lubrication before the authority of the man.

I slid the pants down with torturous slowness. The fabric stuck to my thighs because of the cold sweat, creating a friction that made me gasp. When the garment hit the floor, I was left in only a small strip of lace that barely covered the essentials. I stood sideways in front of the study mirror, forced by his gaze to observe my own body.

I saw my ass—round and massive, extending in a white and voluptuous curve that contrasted violently with the fragility of my waist. It was a fleshy, firm ass that swayed slightly as I trembled. I felt like an object, a piece of meat displayed in a showcase. I knew Mr. Park was devouring that image with his eyes, savoring the roundness of my cheeks and the tension of my skin.

"Now, the last garment," he decreed, his voice becoming a dark mandate. "I want to see you totally open. Right now."

I stood there, naked of everything except a thread of fabric, with hardened tits and an exposed ass, feeling the air of the study wrap around me like a cold shroud. I was broken, stripped of all dignity, and as I looked at Mr. Park, I knew the real hell had just begun.

The silence that followed my stripping was heavier than the clothes I had just dropped on the floor. I stood there, trembling in the center of the study, skin prickling and nipples so tense I felt any touch would make me scream. The cold air of the office hit my tits and stomach, but I could only feel the heat radiating from Mr. Park’s body. He didn't move immediately; he stayed watching me with a predatory calm, enjoying the image of my total vulnerability while I felt myself shrink under his scrutiny.

Then, he took the first step.

It wasn't a hug or a soft caress. It was an invasion. I felt his hand close around my hip with brute force that left me breathless. His fingers sank into my flesh, squeezing the curve of my waist with a possessiveness that made me let out a broken gasp. The thermal contrast was violent: his palm was burning, almost searing my skin which was cold and damp from the sweat of panic.

"Look at you..." he whispered, coming so close that his hot breath clashed against my neck. "So scared, so broken. But your body doesn't lie, does it, Chaeyeon?"

Without warning, he slid his other hand up, trapping one of my tits in a brusque and possessive grip. He forced me to arch my back, and I felt how he squeezed my tit against his palm, molding it with an aggressiveness that made me let out a moan oscillating between pain and a forbidden arousal. His fingers squeezed my nipple hard, twisting it slightly, provoking an electric shock that shot down my spine to anchor itself at the base of my pelvis.

"I wonder if you moaned like this in that hotel," he murmured, his voice becoming a dirty purr. "I wonder if you liked feeling like a whore while you collected the money."

The word "whore" resonated in my ears like a lash, but the humiliation acted as a trigger. I felt my pussy pulse violently against the thin strip of lace of my underwear; lubrication began to flow, thick and hot, betraying me before the man who was degrading me. I hated myself for this; I hated that fear and shame were igniting a fire in my gut that I couldn't put out.

Suddenly, he turned me with a sharp movement, forcing me to be backed up against him. I felt the hard rub of his belt and the pressure of his erection against my ass—a solid, hot mass that made my legs tremble. Mr. Park didn't waste time; he brought his hands down to my cheeks and delivered a dry blow, a loud slap that resonated in the silence of the study.

"Ah!" I let out a muffled scream, feeling the skin of my ass burn instantly.

The impact left me breathless, but the pain was immediately followed by a wave of dark, visceral pleasure. I felt his hands grip my cheeks hard, sinking into the fleshy part of my rear, squeezing it as if he wanted to leave permanent marks on me. I felt like an animal, an object of pleasure without will, while he forced me to lean over the desk, exposing my ass completely to the air and his gaze.

"Look what an ass you have, Chaeyeon," he whispered, his voice now charged with animal lust. "An ass made to be used. I wonder how much longer you can pretend to be the good girl while I have you like this—open and ready for me."

I felt his hand descend, sliding along the curve of my thigh until reaching the edge of the lace. His fingers brushed the wet fold of my intimacy—a fleeting but electric touch that made me arch my back and let out a long, broken moan. The touch was dirty, deliberate; he was testing my moisture, ensuring I was as ready as he desired.

In that moment, the world was reduced to that contact: the pressure of his body against my back, the burn of my slapped ass, and the suffocating feeling of knowing there was no turning back. I was totally surrendered to the predator's game, and while my tears fell silently onto the wood of the desk, my body screamed for the culmination of that torment.

I was there, bent over the oak desk, arms trembling as they held my own weight and my face sunken into the cold wood. I felt the pressure of Mr. Park’s body pressed against my back—a mass of suffocating heat that made me feel as if the air had run out. Then, I felt his fingers hook the thin lace strap of my underwear. There was no subtlety; he pulled it with a dry, abrupt movement that made me let out a muffled whimper.

The sound of fabric sliding down my thighs was the prelude to the void. Suddenly, I felt the glacial air of the office hit my pussy, leaving me totally exposed, open and vulnerable. I shrank instinctively, trying to close my legs, but he gripped my thighs with brute force, forcing me to keep them open, exhibiting my intimacy to the air and his judgment.

"Look how you tremble," he whispered, and I could feel his dark chuckle against my neck. "You're so wet I can almost smell you from here. I wonder if you'd get this turned on for any stranger who paid you, or if it's only because you know that now you belong to me."

Before I could respond, I felt his hot breath brushing the sensitive skin of my thighs. And then, it happened. The first contact of his tongue against my clitoris was like a high-voltage electric shock that ripped through my entire body. I let out a muffled scream into the wood of the desk, arching my back violently. It wasn't a tender caress; it was an aggressive, wet and deliberate lick.

Slurp... glup...

The sound of his tongue working in my intimacy filled the silence of the study—a viscous and obscene noise that made me feel like the filthiest creature in the world. Mr. Park wasn't seeking my pleasure; he was seeking to mark me. His lips sucked my skin hard, leaving marks that I knew would take days to fade. Every time his tongue pressed into the center of my pleasure, I felt my will disintegrate.

"You are such an obedient whore, Chaeyeon," he murmured between laps, his voice sounding wet and raspy. "I imagine you love feeling like this, don't you? Knowing your stepfather has you bent over his desk while he licks your pussy as if you were an animal in heat."

The words were psychological whips, but my body reacted with an obscene betrayal. Despite the disgust and humiliation, I felt my nipples harden against the wood and lubrication flow in hot waves, soaking everything where his tongue worked. I was in a state of total hyperesthesia; every movement of his mouth provoked involuntary spasms in my thighs. I felt fragmented: my mind screamed that this was an aberration, but my pussy pulsed with animal urgency, claiming the culmination of that torment.

Suddenly, he pulled away abruptly. The sudden vacuum left me panting, feeling incomplete and exposed. I heard the sound of his pants' zipper going down—a metallic zip that sounded like a final sentence.

"You've had enough pampering," he decreed, his voice becoming glacial and dominant. "Now let's see how much you can take."

I felt him grip my hips with a force that left imprints on my skin. Without any preamble, without any lubrication other than the moisture of fear and desire, he pushed his erection against the entrance of my pussy. The first impact was dry and violent.

"Ahhh!" I screamed, sinking my fingers into the wood of the desk as he buried himself in me in a single thrust, filling me completely.

The initial pain was acute—a massive pressure that seemed to want to split me in two—but it was immediately followed by a sensation of suffocating fullness. The rhythm that followed was animal; there was no tenderness, only physical power and possessiveness.

Clap... clap... clap...

The sound of his balls hitting my ass resonated in the room like an obscene percussion. Each thrust pushed me harder against the desk, making my tits bounce against the wood and my head shake violently. I felt how he possessed me with blind fury, using my body as a vessel for his lust and power.

"Tell me who your owner is, whore," he growed in my ear, while his hands squeezed my cheeks so hard I felt the flesh deform. "Tell me while I break you from the inside!"

I couldn't articulate words; I only let out broken moans and desperate gasps. I was lost in a whirlwind of fluids, wet sounds, and a sensation of total annihilation. I felt like an object—a thing that existed only to be used—and as the climax approached, I felt my identity vanish, merging with the will of the man who was destroying me.

Silence returned to the study abruptly, a silence so heavy it could almost be felt physically on my shoulders. Mr. Park withdrew from me with the same brusqueness with which he had possessed me, leaving me there, collapsed over the desk, trembling and empty. I felt the draft of cold air hit my sweaty skin, provoking a violent shiver that ran down my back and made me let out a broken sigh.

I stayed motionless for several minutes, face sunken in the cold wood and hair stuck to my forehead by sweat. I could feel the residual moisture sliding slowly down my thighs—a viscous trail that reminded me every second that I had just been used as an object. My pussy throbbed with a dull heaviness, irritated and sensitive; I felt the pressure of the semen cooling inside me, a physical mark of my submission that made me feel anchored to the floor by pure shame.

I heard the metallic sound of his pants' zipper going up—a dry zip that marked the return to normality. The man who was now in front of me was no longer the animal beast who had destroyed me moments ago; he was once again Mr. Park, the impeccable and cordial stepfather. That transition was more terrifying than the act itself: the ease with which he could move from brute lust to the coldness of a controller.

"Clean up this mess," he decreed, his voice regaining that neutral and authoritative tone. "I don't want a single trace of what happened here when you leave this room."

I forced myself to move. My muscles were numb, my legs trembling so much I almost fell while trying to stand up. As I searched for my clothes on the floor, I felt Mr. Park's gaze nailed to my ass, observing the red skin marked by his hands. I felt fragmented; I looked at my own hands and didn't recognize them. My body was still there, pulsing and hot, but my mind had retreated to a distant and dark place to avoid feeling the weight of the humiliation.

When I finished dressing, with clumsy fingers and clouded eyes, I stood in front of the study mirror. I saw myself and felt a visceral nausea. My tits were still sensitive, my lips were swollen, and my pupils were dilated from the emotional shock. I looked like the same person as always, but I knew something had broken irremediably inside me. I was no longer the girl who returned home with money in her pocket and a spark of excitement; now I was someone who belonged to the man standing behind me.

"Listen carefully, Chaeyeon," he said, approaching and placing a hand on my shoulder, squeezing the flesh with possessive firmness. "What happened today is the new order of this house. You know what you have to do so that your secret remains a secret."

I felt a knot tighten in my throat. The fear for myself was unbearable, but then the image of Chaeryeong emerged. I remembered her laughter, her apparent innocence, and the bond that united us. An obsessive idea began to take root in my mind: if I accepted this, if I became Mr. Park’s pressure valve, perhaps he would leave my sister alone. Perhaps I could buy this man's silence with my own flesh.

"If you are an obedient girl... if you do everything I ask without protest," he continued, his voice becoming a glacial whisper in my ear, "your sister will never have to go through this. She can keep smiling and believing she is pure, while you and I take care of the filth."

That promise was the final nail in my coffin. Martyrdom felt like the only dignified way out. I closed my eyes and nodded slightly, accepting the invisible pact. In that moment, Mr. Park had not only taken my body; he had taken my will and transformed it into a shield to protect Chaeryeong.

"Look at how she moves that ass..." another replied, his gaze locked onto Eunbi's backside as she slowly sank down into a squat. "That fabric is about to rip. If she keeps doing that, someone's going to lose their fucking mind right here."

Eunbi knew exactly what she was provoking. While she danced, she maintained aggressive eye contact with different men, casting glances loaded with playful lust. She slid across the floor, arching her back and pushing her tits forward, exposing them fully to the hungry gaze of the group. The movement was visceral; every shake of her body sent a signal straight to those men's primal instincts.

Sweat began to run down the soldiers' temples, dripping down their necks and soaking the collars of their uniforms. Their pupils were dilated to the max, consuming every inch of Eunbi's figure. The air in the hangar grew heavy, saturated with the smell of desire and desperation. Many of them had their hands clenched into fists, squeezing so hard that their knuckles turned white, fighting the animal urge to leap into the center of the circle and seize that swaying body.

Eunbi ramped up the intensity. She began moving her shoulders rapidly, making the bounce of her tits more frenetic—a rhythmic, wild movement that made the dress ride up and down dangerously. She put her hands behind her head, stretching her torso and exposing the tension of her belly and the sheer mass of her chest, letting out a small moan that blended with the bass of the music.

"Do you like it?" she asked in the middle of the dance, her voice sounding breathless and wet. "Do you like watching me move for you? I can feel how you're looking at me... I can feel your hunger from here."

She stopped abruptly, standing face-to-face with the group, her breathing heavy and her chest heaving violently. Her tits continued to sway slightly from the inertia of the movement, and a sheen of sweat began to cover her neck and the valley of her cleavage. The soldiers were on the verge of collapse; the sexual tension had reached a critical point where silence was no longer possible and gasps were the only thing filling the space between the notes of the music. Eunbi looked at them with a malicious smile, knowing she had them exactly where she wanted: broken, starving, and completely under her control.

The music shifted subtly; the rhythm became slower, denser, with a bass that seemed to vibrate directly in the men's bones. The air in the hangar was no longer just hot—it was suffocating, saturated by the ragged breathing of dozens of soldiers and the sweet scent of Eunbi's perfume mixing with the smell of stale sweat. She stood still for a moment, her chest heaving violently, observing the hunger in those men's eyes. She knew they had reached the limit; the tension was a string stretched to the breaking point.

Eunbi let out a low giggle, almost a purr, and slowly brought her hands to the shoulders of the dress. She didn't do it quickly; every movement was calculated to prolong the agony. Her fingers, long and delicate, began to slide the fabric down, inch by inch. The sound of the fabric rubbing against her white skin was almost audible over the thumping bass—a soft friction that made the soldiers hold their breath in unison.

"It's too hot in here, don't you think?" she whispered, casting a glance loaded with malice. "I feel like this dress is squeezing me... I feel like it's suffocating me."

As the dress slid far enough to let one of the straps drop, a collective gasp rippled through the circle of men. The white, smooth skin of her shoulder was exposed, shimmering with a fine layer of sweat that reflected the hangar's fluorescent lights. But the most devastating part happened next: as she lowered the fabric, the support of the dress gave way slightly, causing her massive tits to sway with a real and visceral weight. The soldiers saw the massive curve of her chest partially release from the fabric, revealing an obscene amount of white flesh struggling not to jump out completely.

"Fuck!" one of the soldiers exclaimed, unable to contain himself. "Look at that... it's all coming out. Dammit, I'm going to go crazy!"

"Keep going... just take it off already..." another pleaded in a broken whisper, his gaze locked on the valley between her breasts, where sweat formed small droplets that slid slowly down the skin.

Eunbi ignored the pleas, enjoying the absolute power she held over them. She moved slightly backward, arching her back while sliding the dress further down, allowing the garment to fall to her waist in a slow, fluid motion. The dress didn't disappear entirely, but it hung precariously, leaving the upper part of her torso exposed.

What appeared under the hangar lights was a vision that made several soldiers let out a guttural sound (glup). Eunbi was wearing a tiny bikini, a piece of fabric so small it was an insult. The top was barely a strip of material attempting—unsuccessfully—to contain the massiveness of her tits. Flesh overflowed from the top, the sides, and underneath; her breasts were so large that the bikini looked like a joke, a mere suggestion of clothing that left almost everything in sight. One could see the tension of the fabric stretching to the limit, marking the aggressive roundness of her chest and hinting at the pressure of her nipples against the thin material.

Eunbi placed her hands on the sides of the bikini, squeezing the fabric slightly to lift her tits even higher, projecting them forward like two mountains of white, soft flesh. The men were in shock; some had their mouths open, others closed their eyes for a second only to snap them open again, unable to process the magnitude of what they were seeing. Shame had completely vanished, replaced by an animal and voracious hunger.

"Is this what you wanted to see?" she asked, her voice wet and provocative, while swaying her shoulders to make her tits bounce softly under the bikini. "I wonder if it's enough... or if you're still hungry."

The silence that followed was dense, charged with a sexual electricity that made the air spark. The soldiers were no longer a military formation; they were a group of desperate men, veins in their necks dilated and breathing erratic, staring at that exposed body as if it were the most forbidden feast in the world. The tension in their pants had reached an unbearable point, and Eunbi, aware of this, gave them a predatory smile before preparing for her next move.

Eunbi stayed silent for a moment, enjoying the image of the men around her; they were like hungry dogs waiting to be let off the leash. Her eyes scanned the circle, stopping at the trembling hands of some and the way others bit their lower lips to avoid letting out a scream. The dress still hung dangerously around her waist, an insignificant barrier that only served to increase the agony of those present.

With excruciating slowness, Eunbi brought her hands back to the fabric of the dress. She didn't just let it drop; she began to slide it down inch by inch, making the fabric rub against the skin of her hips with a soft sound that seemed to rumble in the hangar's silence. The soldiers were hypnotized, their gazes locked on the line where the fabric separated from her body. They could see the dress sliding slowly down the curve of her white, smooth thighs, revealing skin shimmering with sweat under the white ceiling lights.

When the garment finally hit the floor with a dull thud, leaving Eunbi completely exposed in her tiny bikini, the air in the hangar seemed to vanish instantly.

If the top was an insult, the bottom was a direct and aggressive provocation. She wore a thong that barely existed; a ridiculously thin strip of fabric that sank deeply into the crack of her ass, disappearing between her massive, round cheeks. The bikini covered nothing; it simply accentuated the obscene roundness of her hips and left almost all of her white skin bare. The string of the bikini dug into her sides, creating a small ridge in the flesh of her thighs that made the men want to sink their fingers right there.

The silence was broken by a collective sound—a mix of gasps and heavy exhales filling the space. The youngest recruit let out a muffled moan and had to lean against the wall to keep from falling; his legs shook violently and his breathing was so erratic it looked like he was having a panic attack, though what he felt was absolute sensory overload.

"Holy fucking shit...!" one of the soldiers exclaimed, his voice broken and hoarse. "Look at that ass... fuck, it's huge... it can't be real. Look how the string sinks in!"

"I'm tripping out..." another muttered, his gaze fixed on the curve of her hips, sliding down toward where the bikini barely managed to cover her most intimate area. "Fuck it all, I can't take this anymore. Someone has to touch her now, fuck, my cock is about to explode in my pants."

Eunbi, far from being intimidated by the growing aggression of the comments, let out a playful giggle and took a step back, turning slowly on her heels to face away from the group. She made a deliberate move: she arched her back, pushing her ass backward and making the thong tension even further, sinking deeply into her flesh. The rhythmic sway of her heavy, firm cheeks caused several soldiers to make a guttural sound (glup), swallowing hard as their pupils dilated until they almost covered the entire iris.

"Do you like my clothes?" she asked, looking over her shoulder with an expression loaded with lust. "I think it's a bit small... don't you? I feel like it'll rip at any moment if someone pulls it hard."

The atmosphere had shifted drastically. Military shame and respect had been incinerated by the fire of animal desire. The men were no longer in formation; some had unconsciously stepped forward, breaking the circle to get closer to her. Their faces were distorted, veins in their necks dilated from blood pressure and sweat soaking their uniforms.

Eunbi turned back toward them, her chest heaving violently, making her tits bounce under the small strip of the bikini. She placed a hand on her thigh, sliding her fingers slowly upward, approaching the edge of the bottom fabric dangerously.

"I see you're not shy anymore," she whispered, her voice now hoarser, wetter. "I see you're hungry. And I... I love it when you're hungry. I wonder who among you will be the first to stop looking and start touching."

The challenge hung in the air, dense and electric. The limit had been crossed; the psychological barrier had completely broken. The soldiers were no longer disciplined men; they were predators who had just seen their prey offer herself voluntarily, and the hunger in their eyes was so visceral it could almost be touched. The sexual tension had reached its breaking point: only one movement, one signal, was needed for carnal chaos to erupt in the middle of the hangar.

The silence that followed Eunbi's words was dense, almost solid, interrupted only by the sound of the men's ragged breathing and the electric hum of the speakers. The air was so charged with desire it seemed to vibrate. The soldiers were in a trance, their gazes locked on her, but none dared to take the first step; it was that last vestige of military discipline fighting against the animal tide pushing them forward.

Eunbi, enjoying the agony of those men, decided she had played enough with their minds. It was time to break the physical barrier.

With a predatory gaze, she scanned the circle until her eyes locked onto the youngest recruit—the one who had been trembling since the moment she stepped out of the car. The boy was pale, his lips dry and his eyes wide, totally overwhelmed by Eunbi's presence. She let out a malicious smile and extended her hand toward him, making a slow gesture for him to approach.

"You... come here," she ordered, her voice no longer just playful but imperative, loaded with a sexual authority that left no room for doubt.

The youth took clumsy steps, almost tripping over his own boots. When he reached her, the smell of vanilla and female skin hit him like a sledgehammer, leaving him breathless. Eunbi looked at him from bottom to top, analyzing the tension in his neck and the way his hands shook violently at his sides.

"You're afraid..." she whispered, moving so close that the heat of their bodies merged. "I love it when you're afraid. It means you know exactly what you have in front of you and you don't know if you can handle it."

Without giving him time to respond, Eunbi took the recruit's right hand firmly. Her fingers were soft but strong, and she guided him directly toward her own chest. There was no subtlety; Eunbi slammed the palm of the boy's hand against one of her tits, sinking it deeply into the mass of white, soft flesh that the tiny bikini barely managed to contain.

The recruit let out a muffled moan, a guttural sound from deep in his throat (glup), while his eyes dilated to the max. The impact was visceral. The sensation of warm, wet, elastic skin under his hand, combined with the massive bounce of the tit against his palm, caused a cerebral short circuit. For a second, the boy froze, fearing this was a dream or that someone would punish him for touching a woman like this.

"Don't just stand there stunned, idiot," Eunbi hissed in his ear, her voice now raw and loaded with dirty talk. "Squeeze... squeeze my tits hard. I want to feel you mash my flesh with your calloused hands. Use your hand, fuck, make me feel like you're a man and not a scared child."

The command was the trigger. The recruit, driven by an animal need he could no longer control, closed his fingers over Eunbi's chest, squeezing with desperate force. He let out a grunt as he felt the softness and firmness of that body, the way the tit overflowed between his fingers, escaping the bikini. Eunbi let out a loud gasp, arching her back and closing her eyes, enjoying the roughness of the contact.

Around them, the rest of the soldiers exploded. Seeing the recruit touching her was the signal they were waiting for. The barrier of modesty shattered into a thousand pieces. Several men stepped forward, surrounding them, with hungry gazes and erratic breathing. Some began to shout dirty words, urging the boy not to be selfish, while others simply gasped, watching as the recruit's fingers sank into Eunbi's white flesh.

"Do it harder!" one of the veterans shouted, his voice broken. "Look how her nipples are marking through that fucking fabric! Take that bikini off her now, fuck!"

Eunbi opened her eyes and looked at the group with an expression of absolute lust. She felt excited by the aggression of the environment, by the smell of masculine sweat that now completely enveloped her. With a quick movement, she reached for the knots of the bikini. First, she untied the strap of the top with a sharp tug.

The fabric snapped, instantly releasing her massive tits. The visual impact was devastating; her breasts dropped with real weight, swaying violently before settling, exposing her erect, pink nipples under the hangar lights. The men let out a collective shout—a mix of awe and animal desire. But Eunbi didn't stop there. With the same speed, she slid her fingers down and untied the thong that had been sinking into her ass.

The bikini fell to the floor like an insignificant piece of trash. Eunbi stood completely naked before them, exposed in every inch. Her massive tits, her flat belly damp with sweat, and her intimate area, fully uncovered, were on display for everyone. Silence returned for a moment, but it was an electric silence—the calm before the animals lunged at their prey.

"There's no more clothes..." Eunbi whispered, looking at the men with a predatory smile while her nipples vibrated from the cold and excitation. "I'm ready now. Now... come and get what you want."

The hangar became a pressure cooker that finally exploded. It wasn't a chaotic or disorganized attack, but a slow, heavy tide of masculine bodies closing the circle around Eunbi, suffocating any empty space. The air became dense, saturated by the smell of testosterone, stale sweat, and the growing humidity of arousal. Eunbi was in the center, naked and glorious, feeling the temperature of the place rise several degrees just from the proximity of so many men burning with desire.

The first contact was like an electric shock. Several hands, calloused and rough, lunged at her simultaneously. One soldier grabbed her tits with desperate force, sinking his fingers into the soft, heavy flesh, while another positioned himself behind her, squeezing her ass with a pressure that left instant red marks on her white skin. The contrast was brutal: Eunbi's extreme softness against the roughness of the military uniform and the hardened hands of hard labor.

"Fuck, she's so soft!" one of the men groaned, his voice sounding like it had sand in its throat. "Her tits are like pillows... look how they overflow between my fingers. I can't believe this is real!"

Eunbi let out a long, wet moan, throwing her head back as she felt the group claim her. There was no trace of fear in her; on the contrary, her pupils were dilated and her breathing erratic, enjoying the sensation of being consumed by that animal hunger. She felt the soldiers' tongues roaming her neck and shoulders, leaving trails of hot saliva that shimmered under the fluorescent lights.

"That's it..." she whispered, her voice hoarse and loaded with lust. "Use me... make me feel how much you've wanted me these past months. Don't stop now..."

Eunbi decided it was time to lower the level of the game. With a fluid movement, while feeling hands continue to knead her tits and others explore the crack of her ass, she slid downward. She let herself drop onto her knees slowly, ending up in a submissive yet dominant position, right in front of the soldier who had been the most anxious throughout the encounter.

The man was paralyzed, looking down at the most desired woman in the camp kneeling before him. Eunbi looked him straight in the eyes, a gaze loaded with dirty promises, and brought her hands to the waistband of the soldier's pants. The sound of the zipper going down was like a gunshot in the hangar's silence; a metallic noise announcing the start of true degradation.

When the soldier's cock sprang out of the pants, hard as a rock and throbbing, Eunbi let out a sigh of satisfaction. She could see the dilated veins running along the member, the tip already wet from accumulated arousal. The smell of musk and sex filled her nostrils, triggering her own lubrication. Without warning, Eunbi opened her mouth and wrapped the head of the member with a slow, sucking motion.

Glup.

The sound was wet and visceral. The soldier let out a muffled cry, arching his back and closing his eyes tight as he felt the suffocating heat of Eunbi's throat enveloping him. She was in no rush; she began to suck with rhythm, lowering her head to swallow as much as possible, making her cheeks sink and the sound of the vacuum resonate in the hangar.

Plok, glup.

Every time she descended, the sound of saliva mixing with hot skin was obscene. Eunbi used her tongue to lick the base and the frenulum, moving with an expert technique that had the man on the verge of a nervous breakdown. The soldier began to pant violently, his hands instinctively descending toward Eunbi's hair, not to push her away, but to press her head deeper against his crotch.

"Oh God... fuck!" the man moaned, his voice breaking. "It's so hot... her mouth is a fucking fire! Keep going, keep going, dammit!"

Around them, the other soldiers were in a frenzy. Some masturbated openly while observing the scene, others pressed against Eunbi, touching her tits and her ass while she remained concentrated on the oral act. The atmosphere was a chaotic mix of sounds: the hoarse pants of the men, the wet noise of Eunbi's mouth (plok), and the constant rub of sweaty skin against uniform fabric.

Eunbi looked up for a second, the cock still between her lips and a string of saliva connecting her corner of the mouth with the tip of the member. Her eyes glowed with absolute malice; she knew she had pushed them to the limit and there was no turning back. She was turning the hangar into a temple of flesh and fluids, where military discipline had completely surrendered to animal lust.

Eunbi felt the soldier reaching his limit; the man trembled violently, and his hands gripped her hair with almost painful force. Just before he exploded in her mouth, Eunbi pulled away with a slow, deliberate movement, leaving a thick string of saliva connecting her lips to the throbbing tip of the member. The soldier let out a grunt of frustration and desire, an animal sound that resonated in the tense silence of the hangar. He couldn't take it anymore; the hunger accumulated for months had transformed into a blind urgency that could only be satiated by penetration.

Without a word, the man grabbed Eunbi by the shoulders and turned her brusquely, forcing her to lean on her hands and knees on the cold floor of the hangar. The position left Eunbi's ass projected upward—a massive white curve that seemed to invite assault. The thong was gone; now only naked, wet skin remained, shimmering under the fluorescent lights.

"Enough games..." the soldier grunted, his voice sounding like a tear. "I'm going to go crazy if I don't get inside you right now."

Eunbi let out a hoarse gasp, arching her back and pushing her cheeks backward, seeking contact. She could feel the man's hot breath against her skin and the smell of sex and sweat emanating from him. The soldier wasted no more time; he positioned himself behind her, and with a firm, dry movement, guided his cock toward Eunbi's entrance.

The first thrust was slow but deep.

Eunbi let out a muffled scream—a mix of pain and extreme pleasure that filled the space. She felt how the flesh stretched to the limit to make room for the thick, hard member, a visceral sensation of fullness that made her shiver from her fingertips to the base of her spine. The soldier let out a long sigh, closing his eyes as he felt the suffocating heat and tight humidity of Eunbi's interior enveloping him completely.

When he finally entered all the way, both froze for a second, allowing their bodies to adjust to the intensity of the encounter. But the calm was short-lived. Animal instinct took command and the rhythm began to accelerate.

Clap.

The sound was dry and loud; the collision of the soldier's balls against Eunbi's ass resonated in the hangar like a gunshot.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

As the rhythm became more frenetic, the noise of flesh colliding became constant and obscene. It was a rhythmic, visceral sound that marked the beat of desire. Eunbi was completely surrendered; her head hung low, her hands gripping the cold floor while her massive tits swung violently with every thrust, bouncing against the concrete in a chaotic and exciting movement.

"Fuck, you're so tight!" the soldier shouted, his voice broken by arousal. "I feel how you're sucking me in!"

Eunbi couldn't articulate coherent words; she only emitted wet moans and erratic gasps. She felt every inch of the member hitting her internal walls, a hot friction that was taking her to the edge of the abyss. But the most visceral part was the sensation of the other men around her. While the first soldier hammered her from behind, the others didn't just watch.

Two soldiers positioned themselves at her sides, grabbing her tits with brute force, squeezing and molding them while she screamed from the pleasure. Another man knelt in front of her, forcing her to look at him while he licked her lips and whispered dirty words in her ear, describing exactly what was happening behind her.

"Look how that ass rattles..." one of them muttered, observing Eunbi's white skin turning red from the constant impact of the collision (clap).

Sweat began to rain over them; the mix of fluids and heat created a lubricating layer that made the bodies slide against each other. The veins in the neck of the soldier penetrating her were dilated to the max, his muscles tense as steel cables while he pushed with desperate violence. Eunbi felt her world reduce to that sound of colliding flesh and the massive pressure filling her belly.

The tension reached a critical point. The rhythm became so fast that the clap turned into a continuous hum of skin against skin. Eunbi felt an electric shock run through her nerves, a violent muscular contraction that made her arch her back to the limit. She was about to break, and the man behind her was too. The hangar was no longer a place of discipline; it was a nest of throbbing flesh, sweat, and animal lust where the only language was the noise of raw sex.

The sound of the impact was deafening in the hangar; every thrust from the soldier translated into a dry, violent clap that resonated against the metal walls, an animal rhythm that synced with the desperate gasps of the men surrounding her. But while the cock hammered her from behind, the visual center of attention remained her tits.

Because of the position—leaning on her hands and knees—gravity caused her breasts to hang heavily toward the floor. With every brutal blow she received in the ass, her tits jumped with obscene violence, bouncing up and down like two mountains of white flesh that knew no rest. The movement was hypnotic; the mass of her chest swayed from left to right, bouncing against her own torso and swinging with a real weight that made the observing soldiers lose their minds.

The two men flanking her were no longer content with caressing her; they had moved to a phase of brute possession. Their hands, large and calloused, sank into Eunbi's flesh with aggressive force. One of them grabbed one of her tits and squeezed it so powerfully that the flesh overflowed between his fingers, distorting the roundness of the breast as he pulled it downward. The other did the same with the other, kneading them like clay, sinking fingers into the softness of her white skin until leaving red marks that contrasted violently with her pale tone.

Eunbi let out a gut-wrenching scream, but it wasn't pain; it was the scream of a woman being consumed by the purest and most degrading desire. She turned her head toward the men crushing her chest and, with eyes clouded by lust and mouth open, began to speak dirty, her voice sounding hoarse, wet, and completely broken.

"Yes... fuck! Keep doing that!" she shouted, while a particularly strong thrust made her arch her back. "Mash my tits! Squeeze them until it hurts, you animals! I love feeling your filthy hands distorting my chest while this idiot breaks my ass from behind... keep going, don't stop!"

Her words acted like gasoline on a fire. The soldier penetrating her let out a roar and increased the speed, making the claps so fast they became a continuous hum of flesh hitting flesh. Eunbi felt her body was a war zone; the constant rub of sweaty skin, the massive pressure in her chest, and the burning friction inside her were taking her to the limit.

"Look at my tits!" she exclaimed, panting violently as she saw her own breasts bouncing frantically with every blow. "Look how they jump for you! Don't you want to feel them? Come and lick my nipples while you fuck me! I want to feel all your tongues on my tits right now!"

At the command, another soldier lunged forward and wrapped one of her nipples in his mouth, sucking with voracious force. Eunbi let out a sharp moan that turned into a scream when she felt the pull of the nipple coordinated with the deep impact of the cock in her belly. The contrast was brutal: the vacuum of the suction on her chest and the massive pressure in her sex.

"Yes... like that... fuck!" she gasped, saliva running from the corner of her lips. "Take me all! Don't leave a single inch of my skin unmarked. I want to wake up tomorrow and feel that every one of you left their mark on my body. Harder, dammit! Push me harder against the floor while you bite my tits!"

The hangar was saturated. The smell of sex was so dense it could be tasted; a mix of vaginal fluids, pre-cum, and masculine sweat. The soldiers were out of their minds, their faces distorted by a hunger that no longer had a brake. The veins in their necks were dilated to the max and their breaths were short, erratic gasps.

Eunbi was at the epicenter of the chaos, feeling her body become an instrument of collective pleasure. Her tits continued to oscillate violently, jumping under the hands and mouths of the men, while the rhythm of penetration reached a point of no return. Every clap was now a promise that the final explosion was only seconds away, and Eunbi, with her raw language and her bouncing breasts, pushed them all toward the abyss.

The hangar had become an echo chamber for the crudest lust; the sound of the clap, clap, clap was so rhythmic and violent it seemed like industrial machinery running at maximum power. Eunbi was in a state of absolute ecstasy, her face pressed against the cold cement while her body was shaken by thrusts that threatened to disassemble her. But the most striking part remained her tits: they were two white and heavy masses that, due to the speed of the rhythm, no longer just bounced but swayed in a chaotic frenzy, hitting her own torso and jumping up and down with visceral force.

The soldiers flanking her were out of control. There were no more caresses; only possessive and brutal grips. One of them had both hands buried in her breasts, squeezing them with such fury that the flesh overflowed between his fingers, molding her tits into grotesque and exciting shapes while shaking them to the rhythm of the thrusts. The other soldier had pressed himself against her, licking the sweat from her back and biting her shoulders, while his hands slid down to squeeze her ass, coordinating the pressure with every blow the man behind her delivered.

Eunbi let out a scream that tore through the air, a wet and prolonged sound that ended in a hoarse gasp. With eyes bloodshot from pleasure and mouth open, she began to spit dirty words, her voice sounding as if it were being torn apart by excitation itself.

"Yes... fuck! Feel how I open up for you!" she screamed, while an especially deep thrust made her arch her back and let out a sharp moan. "Look at my tits, you filthy pigs! Look how they jump while you break me inside! They're so big you can't stop looking at them, right?! Tell me you want to lick every drop of sweat from my nipples right now!"

The man penetrating her let out a guttural roar, the veins in his neck dilating to the limit and his face distorted by effort. His hands clamped onto Eunbi's hips, leaving deep red marks on the white skin, while he accelerated the rhythm to an inhuman speed. The sound of the impact (clap) became a continuous hum; there was no longer any space between one blow and another.

"I'm going to cum... fuck, I'm going to cum in you!" the soldier roared, his voice sounding like a wounded animal.

Eunbi felt the internal pressure reaching the breaking point. Her vaginal muscles contracted violently around the member, sucking it with desperate force. In that moment, Eunbi turned her head toward the men crushing her chest and let out one last command loaded with degrading lust.

"Now! Make my head explode! Fill me with everything! I want to feel your hot milk on my skin, on my tits, on my face! Don't hold anything back, you animals, empty yourselves inside and all over me!"

That was the final trigger. The soldier behind her let out a visceral scream and sank in to the root one last time, tensing every muscle of his body while firing thick, hot jets deep into Eunbi's belly. At the same time, the other soldiers, who had been on the edge of the abyss, collapsed in a collective orgasm.

The hangar filled with violent gasps and broken moans as white, viscous milk began to rain over Eunbi. Some fired against her back, others over her cheeks, but most focused on her tits. Hot jets impacted the white, taut skin of her breasts, sliding down the massive curves and filling the deep valley between them, creating an obscene contrast between the whiteness of her flesh and the viscosity of the masculine fluid.

Eunbi collapsed onto the floor, trembling violently, lungs burning and body covered in a shimmering layer of sweat and semen. Her tits continued to sway slightly from inertia, now stained and glistening under the hangar lights. She lay there, panting, feeling the weight of the men collapsing around her, exhausted and empty, while silence slowly returned to the place, broken only by the sound of erratic breathing and the dripping of fluids on the cold concrete.

The silence that fell over the hangar was so abrupt it felt painful, as if someone had cut the power with a single blow. No trace remained of the frenetic rhythm or the animal screams; there was only the heavy, erratic sound of dozens of lungs fighting to recover oxygen. The air remained thick, saturated by that metallic smell of sex, sweat, and fluids that had become the very atmosphere of the place.

Eunbi remained slumped on the cold cement for several minutes, her face resting on an arm and her eyes fixed on an oil stain on the floor. Her body trembled in residual spasms—small electric jolts running down her spine. She felt the weight of her own exhaustion, but also a dark and visceral satisfaction. She was completely naked, exposed and marked; she felt the viscosity of the semen cooling slowly on her skin, creating a sticky film that clung to her curves.

The most evident part were her tits. Those massive breasts, which had been the center of the storm, now rested against the floor, flattened by their own weight. They were glistening, covered in thick white streaks that slid down the sides and accumulated in the deep valley between them. Some drops still slid slowly toward her nipples, which remained erect and sensitive to the brush of the cold hangar air. Eunbi let out a long, wet sigh, feeling the adrenaline fade and give way to a strange melancholy—that post-orgasmic void that feels like a hole in the chest.

Around her, the soldiers were shadows of what they had been ten minutes ago. There was no more aggression or hunger; only defeat remained. They sat or lay on the floor, gazes lost and breathing heavy. Some stared at their own hands, surprised by the brutality with which they had touched that body, while others simply closed their eyes, overwhelmed by the sensory discharge that had just broken their psyche. Military discipline had died in that hangar; they had been reduced to their most primal state, and now, the return to reality was a blunt blow.

"Fuck..." one of them whispered, his voice completely empty, almost without air. "What the hell just happened?"

No one answered. Silence was the only possible response. It was a silence charged with a dull guilt and infinite admiration. They had been possessed by her as much as they had tried to possess her.

Slowly, Eunbi began to pull herself up. The sound of her skin peeling away from the damp cement produced a visceral noise that made several soldiers look up at her. She sat back on her heels, letting her tits sway softly with the movement, scattering the drops of semen still clinging to them. There was no trace of shame in her gaze; on the contrary, she observed them with a predatory calm, like someone looking over a battlefield after winning the war.

She brought a finger to the corner of her lips, picked up a remnant of saliva and fluid, and licked it slowly while maintaining eye contact with the youngest recruit, who was still trembling in a corner. The boy couldn't hold her gaze; he lowered his head, feeling small, forever marked by that encounter.

"Looks like you've recovered your morale," Eunbi said, her voice returning to silk, though now with a hint of satisfied exhaustion. "I hope this 'gift' is enough for you to endure the rest of your service without going crazy."

She stood up with a slow elegance, allowing the fluids to slide down her thighs and fall to the floor in thick drops. She was in no rush to cover herself; she enjoyed the way the men looked at her—a mix of residual hunger and almost religious respect. She knew she was leaving, but she left behind something far more permanent than physical pleasure: she had left them a psychological scar. From that moment on, every time those men closed their eyes or felt the rub of their uniforms, they would remember the weight of her tits, the smell of vanilla mixed with sex, and the feeling of having been completely dominated by one woman.

“Oh my,” Eunha blushes at the cake she receives. She couldn’t believe that her friends had it made. Standing before her was a cake made to look like a dick. What made her blush the most was the fact that white chocolate had been used to make it look like it had cum. 

“Do you like it?” SinB asks teasingly. “We knew you wanted one as a gift.” The younger woman knew what Eunha had meant the last time they had spoken, and she got that, too. SinB just thought it would be funnier to start with the cake. 

Umji smiles, having agreed to present the cake first. “We have another gift too, but we need you to put this on first.” The youngest member of Viviz holds out a blindfold for Eunha to wear. Hesitantly, Eunha put it on, with Umji checking the tightness before they began. “Open wide, unnie,” Eunha opens her mouth. She feels the metal of the spoon tap against her teeth before it lands on her tongue. The sweetness of the cake hit her instantly. Eunha smiled as she kept her lips sealed around the spoon, making it difficult for Umji to pull it out. “Unnie,” Umji whined. That was enough for Eunha to loosen her grip and allow Umji to pull the spoon out. As Umji got another spoonful of cake, SinB got to work on her side of the plan. She got behind Eunha and slipped her hands under the older woman’s shirt. Her hands went to Eunha’s tits, squeezing the modest mounds. 

The act made Eunha shiver. “Ah, S-sinB,” she stuttered. Eunha didn’t try to contain her moans; she leaned back against SinB, letting her friend grope her as much as she pleased. Eunha felt her friend’s hands find her nipple. SinB’s long fingers flicked the nubs until they grew hard. Eunha could hardly focus as Umji fed her a spoonful of cake. The eldest continued to moan as SinB tugged her hardened nipples. She whined, struggling to deal with the pleasure. Yet, when SinB stopped, she wanted more. The younger woman stopped for a moment, grabbing the hem of Eunha’s shirt and stripping it away from her body. Eunha could feel the air against her bare skin.

“We’re going to take this off too,” SinB whispered, patting Eunha’s skirt. In the next instant, Eunha was standing there naked. Her arousal was clearly visible to SinB and Umji, who saw the older woman’s inner thighs glistening with her nectar. 

“Aw, Unnie wants more,” Umji giggles, placing her hand on Eunha’s slit, rubbing her puffy lips. The older woman moans softly, wriggling her toes as she tries to stifle her moan. 

“We’ll give you more,” SinB said. This made Eunha cock her head to the side. She had no clue what SinB meant. SinB grabbed the older woman’s hands, and Eunha felt cold metal around her wrists, followed by the sound of some clicks. Eunha knew immediately what was put on her. The girls weren’t done, though. SinB brought Eunha’s hand above her head. Unable to see, Eunha had no clue what was happening. Once she felt SinB's hands move away, she tried to lower hers, only to find she couldn’t. They were stuck high above her head. The birthday girl rubbed her legs together. She figured out what was going on. “Happy birthday, Eunha!” SinB chirped. “We thought it might be good to give you something you’ve always wanted.”

Eunha shivered as she felt a light smack of a riding crop on the outside of her thigh. “We’ll make sure to take good care of you. Isn’t that right, Mr. Boyfriend? Aren’t you the luckiest guy to have such a kinky little bunny?” Eunha's cheeks turned a bright red; she had fully expected this to be a session between them. 

“I really am,” you reply, confirming you were in the room as well. “Eunha’s always saying well, you two treat her. I thought it would be good to join.” You come up behind the restrained woman and place your hands on Eunha’s side, your hands moving along her smooth sides until you reach her mounds. You cup her tits, giving them a light squeeze. Eunha sucks in a breath, a small whine coming from her as SinB runs the riding crop closer to her slit.

“Unnie, really is a kinky bunny,” Umji says softly. The youngest member had gone unnoticed by Eunha. It was only now that she could tell Umji was standing right in front of her. Umji’s soft lips pressed against the valley between her breasts. Eunha felt Umji’s hands at her waist, squeezing her ever so slightly. Umji planted more kisses on Eunha’s body, leaving a mark on her neck before stealing a kiss from the older woman. Their tongues swirled around one another. Eunha moaned into their kiss, panting as your cock prodded her backside. 

“Tell us what you want,” you tell your lover.

“I want you to fuck me,” Eunha says softly. You all smile, hearing Eunha admit it so easily. You massage Eunha’s soft tits with your palm, her nipples hardening against you. When the sensitive bulbs were finally rock hard, you let go of one of her tits, shifting your hand downward. “Umji, why don’t you have a taste of this?” Umji giggled and lowered her head, her lips trapping Eunha’s nipple. The youngest member flicked the sensitive nub with her tongue before opening her mouth wider and greedily taking more of Eunha’s breast into her mouth. Your girlfriend moaned loudly as Umji bit down on her tit, just hard enough to leave teeth marks when she let go later. For now, Umji sucked on Eunha’s tit to her heart’s content. You made sure Eunha’s other mound wasn’t neglected, pulling and twisting the sensitive nub. “SinB, do you want a taste too?”

“I’ll take one,” SinB says with a smirk. SinB follows Umji’s lead, teasing Eunha’s nipple before taking in more of her supple tit. Eunha’s moans grew louder now that she had both her friends sucking on her tits; her juices were making her thighs glisten. The pleasure she felt kept growing, too. You slipped your cock between her legs, rubbing it against her slick folds. Hands wandered all over Eunha’s body. SinB and Umji went to their favorite spot, each woman grabbing a handful of Eunha’s cheeks, squeezing the thick piece of meat.

“What do you want?” You ask Eunha again.

“For you to fuck me. Fuck me while they suck on my tits.” Eunha moaned. You smiled, seeing your girl so needy. You press your cock against her entrance and push into the warm, slick cavern. Eunha’s moan reaches a new apex as you push yourself deeper into her cunt. It’s as if with every suck from Umji and SinB, her walls clamp down on you. You bury yourself inside Eunha, stalling until she whines for you to move. You kiss the back of her neck before dragging your length out of her, her walls refusing to let you go easily. It feels good, her walls massaging you as you try to pull out. You leave the tip inside Eunha before thrusting into her again. Her body lurches forward, pushing her tits further into her friends’ mouths. You begin to build a rhythm, you grab onto her waist and grow rougher with your thrusts, drawing more moans from your girlfriend. 

“You’re a really naughty bunny, Eunha. Having done these sorts of things with Umji and SinB so often,” you tell her. “All those videos you send. We’re going to break this little bunny tonight.” Your words make Eunha shiver with anticipation. She’s your captive for the night, and she’s already about to have her first climax. 

SinB abandons Eunha’s tit, favoring a kiss from the birthday girl and playing with Eunha’s clit. Eunha’s toes curl, and she cries out as she cums on your cock, her nectar coating your shaft before it leaks out of her and drips onto the floor. Umji smiles and drops to her knees, lapping at Eunha’s sopping cunt, focusing her attention on where you and Eunha come together. “Ah! Wait, h-hold on,” Eunha struggles with her words as you continue to drive your cock into her overly stimulated cunt. It didn’t help Eunha that Umji was dragging her tongue along until she reached her clit. 

“We’re going to break you,” SinB said kindly. “Just enjoy it all, Eunha.” SinB took a step back. Eunha tried to listen to where SinB was going, but it was all but impossible to hear over her own moans and the wet claps of your body and hers colliding. When SinB did come back, it was to force another orgasm onto her. SinB pats Umji’s shoulder, a silent signal to move. It was only then that Eunha could hear what SinB had brought. She heard the motor of a vibrator. Just what kind she had brought, she had no clue, but Eunha understood now she was going to be made into a mess by the end. 

Umji and SinB worked together. Umji held the small bullet vibrators at their max, while SinB applied the tape to them. There was one for each nipple. Eunha screams the moment they apply the vibrators. She was quickly turning into a whimpering mess as the combined pleasure of the toy and your cock began to break her mind. 

As it turned out, that wasn’t all that SinB had brought along. She flicked the switch on a wand as well, pressing it against Eunha’s clit. The older woman screams out again, pleasure overwhelming her senses as she cums again. This time was much more intense than the last. Eunha squirts, her juices spilling onto the floor as her body twitches. Umji and SinB watch with glee as the oldest member of Viviz writhes with pleasure. “Do you like your gift, unnie?” Umji asks, smiling at the blindfolded woman. 

Eunha couldn’t respond. How could she when her mind was going blank from all the sensations she was going through? She didn’t even realize how close you were to cumming. She only caught wind of it when you buried yourself inside her cunt. Eunha could feel your potent cum shooting into her womb. Eunha’s body was going limp; she had no strength as you filled her to the brim. Your cock was acting as a plug because the moment you pulled out, your cum began to leak out of her, dripping onto the floor and running down her legs. You turn Eunha’s head and kiss her gently, “Get ready for the next round.”

Eunha raises her head and sees before her Umji and SinB with their own cocks. Her friends had put on a strapon and were stroking it, making sure they were slick with lube. They circled Eunha for a moment, looking her over and deciding who would take the front and who would take the back. “SinB, I want her ass,” Umji says, her eyes glued to Eunha’s plush rear.

“You can have it,” SinB replies. “I want to wreck that pretty pink pussy of hers.” Umji cheers, having gotten what she wants. Before they started, though, Umji kneeled behind Eunha, spreading her cheeks. Umji saw her prize, Eunha’s puckered ass. The younger woman sticks her tongue out and circles it. Eunha groans, her body shivers as Umji’s tongue pushes into her.

“U-umji,” Eunha struggles to get words out anymore. Umji's tongue was digging deeper, and pushing her towards cumming again. Umji stopped close, though. 

“Unnie, I hope you’re not tired yet,” Umji giggled as she pressed the tip of her strapon against Eunha’s ass. Umji held Eunha’s waist and pushed in, stretching the tight ring of muscle. A long, drawn-out moan came from Eunha as her ass was stretched out. 

On the other side, SinB was teasing Eunha, rubbing her silicone cock against Eunha’s folds. “We love you,” she said with a smirk before pushing in. Eunha threw her head back; she had her groupmates deep in her guts, their cocks rubbing against each other through her thin walls. They were alternating when Umji thrust in, SinB moved out, and vice versa. It was bearable for a moment, but quickly they began to play roughly. Their thrusts were quick, like they were using a toy instead of fucking Eunha. “What do you like?”

“Being fucked! I love it!”

“You’re a dirty little bunny, right?”

“I’m a dirty little bunny! I’m a dirty fucking bunny who loves having cocks shoved up her ass and pussy at the same time.” Eunha shouted; she was beginning to really lose it. “I’m a fleshlight for my juniors. I love when they fuck the shit out of me. I love cock, I love it!” Eunha cried out as she came for what must’ve been the fourth time. You had lost count at this point. 

Still, it was an erotic sight for you to see the groupmates so close. It had you hard again. You come in close and unhook Eunha’s hands. “Lower her to the floor, I want to use her mouth.” SinB smiled and abided by your request. She lay on the ground, Eunha riding her while Umji continued to fuck her ass. You tilt Eunha’s head up and rub your cock against her glossy lips. Your girlfriend opens her mouth slowly, and you push inside. Her tongue lashes against the sides as you slide in and out. Eunha was completely stuffed now, with a cock in every hole. Her head was spinning from all the pleasure crashing over her. On top of the three of you fucking her there was still the matter of the bullet vibrators on her nipples. Eunha couldn’t hold herself together any longer. She came again, and again. Every few thrusts, she would cry out as her overstimulated body squirted out more nectar. She was a complete mess, and you were about to add to that mess. 

You thrust into the back of Eunha’s mouth, fucking her face roughly, your balls slapping against her chin, saliva coating your cock as she gags on it. “Beg for this cum.” You tell her, pulling out of her mouth and slapping her cheeks with your cock.

“I want it!” she shouted. “Cum in me. I want your salty cum down my throat!” You push your cock back into her mouth and watch as Eunha fucks herself, bobbing her head until your cock is hitting the back of her throat. As Eunha feels your cock throb, she holds herself to your crotch. Your cock twitches in her mouth, and as you explode inside her, so do Umji and SinB, much to Eunha’s surprise. Eunha’s eyes shoot open as she feels a warm liquid shoot into her womb and ass. The amount is crazy, Eunha felt as if her belly was going to bulge with the amount being pumped into her. The distraction allows you to pull out, and you use the last of your climax to paint Eunha’s face. 

Eunha collapses onto SinB’s chest. “Did you like your gift?” SinB asks. 

Umji presses herself against Eunha, wrapping her arms around her unnie. “Yeah, did you like your gift? We got these toys especially made. Did they feel familiar? They should because it’s your boyfriend cock.”

“Not just that, but you felt it, right? You felt us cumming in you?” SinB adds.

Eunha nods her head slowly; her body is absolutely exhausted. “It felt amazing. I feel so full,” she mutters. You all can’t help but laugh at Eunha. The petite woman could barely speak after all her shouting and moaning. 

“We’ll help you get cleaned up, right, girls?” SinB and Umji flash you a smile. 

"Not at all," he replied, his voice keeping that tranquil, composed cadence, so at odds with the heat radiating between us. "You look beautiful, as always. But if you go out looking like that, you’ll have to fight them off with a stick."

A warm, pleasant hum buzzed in my chest at the compliment. I loved how he looked at me—not just as a mother, but as a woman he desired. It was a dangerous, addictive thrill. I turned away from the mirror and sauntered towards him, my heels clicking rhythmically on the wooden floor. The air in the room felt thick, charged with that familiar, electric tension that always seemed to spark when we were alone.

"They can look all they want," I murmured, stopping just inches from him. I reached out, flattening my palm against his chest, feeling the steady, rhythmic thumping of his heart. "But they can't touch. Only you get to touch, don't you, sweetheart?"

He closed the gap between us; his arms circled my waist, pulling me against him. His face was so close to mine. I felt his breath on my neck, and it made me shiver. He kissed my neck; his lips were soft and gentle. I moaned softly and arched my back, pressing my body closer to his. I ran my fingers through his brown hair, pulling him closer to me. His hands moved down to my bum, squeezing firmly. I loved how confident he was becoming, how he took what he wanted from me.

"Only me," he whispered against my skin, his voice vibrating through me.

I couldn't help the giggle that bubbled up, mixed with a desperate gasp as his teeth grazed my collarbone. It was absurd, really. I was supposed to be heading out to Roppongi to dance and drink, to lose myself in the thumping bass and coloured lights, yet here I was, melting in the arms of a fifteen-year-old boy who was rapidly becoming the only thing that could satisfy the insatiable hunger inside me.

"Are there any chances for you to remain here or for me to come with you as your knight?" He asked, his voice muffled slightly against my skin, the vibrations of his words sending a fresh wave of heat pooling in my abdomen.

I pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, my hands resting on his shoulders. "My knight? Are you planning to fight off all the bad men with a sword, then?" I teased, though the idea was tempting. The thought of having him by my side, his possessive eyes on me all night while I danced, made my thighs clench together. "If you promise not to make a scene if someone tries to flirt with me... I want you to be there with me to have fun, not to be my guardian."

My sweet boy nodded. I instructed him on what to wear, forcing him to put on something a bit more sophisticated than his usual school attire. It felt delightfully sinful, dressing him up like my own personal doll, preparing him for a night where the lines between mother and lover would be blurred amidst the neon lights of Tokyo.

The taxi ride into Roppongi was a blur of passing streetlights and the electric anticipation humming beneath my skin. My hand rested on his thigh the entire way, my fingers tracing teasing circles higher and higher, relishing the way his breathing hitched. He stayed calm, outwardly tranquil, but I could feel the tension coiling in his muscles, the predator waiting to be unleashed.

When we finally stepped out of the cab, the city assaulted our senses in a dizzying wave of sound and colour. The bass from the nearby clubs was a physical thump in my chest, vibrating through the soles of my high heels. I took his arm, pressing my body against his, revelling in the possessive glances he shot at anyone who dared to look my way. We walked past the queues, the bouncer recognising me and ushering us inside with a knowing grin.

The club was a sensory overload, a swirling vortex of neon lasers, pounding bass, and the sweet, musky scent of expensive perfume and desire. I held onto his arm tightly as we navigated the throng of bodies, feeling like the queen of the night with her handsome young prince. The heat was palpable, but nothing compared to the fire burning in my blood as I felt his protective presence beside me.

We made our way towards the VIP section, a raised platform swathed in velvet ropes and bathed in purple light. There, waving enthusiastically amidst the bottles of champagne and ice buckets, were my girls. Mina, with her feline eyes and mischievous smirk; Nayeon, glowing with that bunny-like charm; and Tzuyu, tall and elegant, looking like a runway model who had wandered in for a drink.

"Sana! Over here!" Nayeon shrieked over the music, her eyes widening as she took in my entourage. I dragged him over to the plush, crescent-shaped booth, watching their faces drop in varying degrees of shock and appreciation as they got a good look at him. He stood there, calm and composed, looking utterly delectable in the dark button-down I’d picked out for him. It was unbuttoned just enough to show a hint of the smooth skin beneath, the shirt tucked neatly into his trousers.

The booth, however, presented a minor logistical dilemma. It was designed for four, perhaps five people at a squeeze, but there were four of us, and the table was cluttered with buckets of Moët and assorted cocktails.

"Oh, bother", I pouted playfully, looking around the tight space. "It seems we're a seat short, aren't we?"

Tzuyu, ever the graceful one, started to shift towards the edge to make room, but I was already moving. I wasn't about to let my knight sit on the hard cushion outside the circle, nor did I want him pressed up against Nayeon, no matter how much I adored her.

With a mischievous glint in my eye, I turned to my son, patting my thigh invitingly. "I suppose you’ll just have to be my chair for the night, sweetheart. Unless you object to having the best view in the house?"

He didn’t miss a beat. He settled onto the plush leather seat, his legs spread slightly in that inherently masculine way, and looked up at me with a raised brow. "I think I can manage that," he murmured, his voice steady, though I caught the subtle darkening of his pupils.

I didn't hesitate. I gathered the hem of my short dress and turned, sinking onto his lap. The sensation was immediate and electric. I felt the firm muscles of his thighs beneath my bottom, and as I wiggled to get comfortable, I couldn't ignore the distinct, hardening length pressing against my backside. A flush of heat shot through me, and I bit my lip to stifle a moan. Being this full and heavy against him, in public, of all places, was a wicked thrill.

His arms instinctively wrapped around my waist, pulling me flush against his chest, grounding me amidst the dizzying atmosphere of the club. I settled back against him, revelling in the heat of his body seeping through the thin fabric of my dress. It was a possessive hold, one that silently claimed ownership, and I felt a heady rush of adrenaline knowing that my friends were watching every second of it.

"Well, hello there," Mina purred, leaning her elbows on the table to get a better look. Her dark, feline eyes roamed over his face with undisguised interest, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. "Sana, you really didn't do this handsome young man justice in your stories. He’s absolutely gorgeous."

I felt a sharp pang of jealousy in my chest, primal and fierce, but I suppressed it with a bright, bubbly laugh. I leant back, resting my head on his shoulder, and tilted my chin up to look at him. "Isn't he, though? I told you he was special. But try to control yourselves, ladies. He’s a bit shy."

"He doesn't look very shy to me," Tzuyu countered, her voice cool and sultry as she took a slow sip from her flute of champagne. Her gaze was heavy, lingering a little too long on the way his hands rested possessively on my hips, his thumb tracing idle circles against the bone. "In fact, he looks like he knows exactly what he's doing. Those eyes... they aren't innocent at all."

I felt him stiffen slightly behind me—not in fear, but in recognition. It was the hunter acknowledging he was being watched. He didn't flinch under Tzuyu's scrutiny; instead, he met her gaze evenly, that tranquil mask firmly in place, though I could feel the rapid thrum of his heart beating against my spine.

"He’s just composed," I corrected them, waving a hand dismissively, though my pulse quickened at their praise. I reached for the bucket, grabbing a bottle of Moët. "Don't scare him off, you lot. He’s used to quiet nights at home, not..." I gestured vaguely at the writhing mass of bodies on the dance floor below, "this chaotic madness."

"He is far too composed for a boy his age," Nayeon chimed in, her bunny-like teeth flashing as she grinned. She reached across the table, her fingers brushing against his arm—a touch that lingered a second too long for my liking. "Usually, boys are tripping over their own tongues around us. You seem... unbothered, young man."

I felt the muscles in his jaw tighten against my shoulder, a subtle shift that only I would notice. He didn't pull away, but his hand on my hip gave a firm, reassuring squeeze, silently reminding me—and perhaps her—that he was exactly where he wanted to be.

"I prefer to observe," he replied smoothly, his voice cutting through the thumping bass with an ease that surprised me. He lifted his glass of champagne, his blue eyes locking with Nayeon's over the rim. "And right now, the view is quite extraordinary."

Nayeon’s cheeks flushed a delicate shade of pink at his smooth retort, and she let out a surprised, delighted laugh, pulling her hand back as if she’d been burned. "Oh, he’s got a tongue on him, too! Sana, where on earth did you find this one? You’ve been hiding a diamond in the rough."

"I told you he was full of surprises," I preened, swirling the golden liquid in my glass. The possessive pride swelling in my chest was intoxicating. Seeing my friends—women who were used to men fawning over them—rendered slightly flustered by my son’s quiet confidence was a massive ego boost. I shifted my weight on his lap, grinding down slightly, and felt his breath hitch imperceptibly against my ear. I knew exactly what I was doing to him. The friction, the heat, the public nature of our seating arrangement—it was all calculated to drive him mad, and I could feel the rigid proof of it beneath my thigh.

"I like him," Mina decided, her dark eyes narrowing speculatively. She poured a fresh glass of champagne and slid it across the table towards him. "He’s got a presence. It’s... intense. You don’t see that in boys his age. Usually, it’s all pent-up aggression and awkwardness. He’s calm. Controlled."

I watched him take the glass with that same steady hand, offering Mina a nod of gratitude that was polite yet kept a distinct air of detachment. "Thank you", he said, his voice low and smooth, managing to make a simple pleasantry sound like a command. "It is... interesting to meet the women Sana speaks of so often."

"Speaks of us?" Tzuyu arched a perfectly sculpted brow, setting her glass down with a deliberate clink. She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, her gaze locking onto his with predatory curiosity. "I wonder what exactly she says. Do tell!"

He took a slow sip of the champagne, his eyes never leaving Tzuyu’s. "Only that you are beautiful, lively, and... intense", he replied, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. The playfulness in his tone was so subtle; if I didn't know him so well—if I didn't feel the way his fingers were gripping my hip possessively—I might have missed it.

"Intense?" Tzuyu repeated the word rolling off her tongue like dark chocolate. She seemed to taste the subtext there, her eyes glinting with amusement. "I suppose I'll take that as a compliment. Though I have a feeling you're the one who enjoys a bit of intensity, aren't you?"

I felt the vibration of his low chuckle against my back before I heard it. It was a rich, surprisingly deep sound for a boy of fifteen, and it sent a shiver of delight straight down my spine. "I suppose you could say I appreciate focus," he answered smoothly, his hand idly stroking the silk of my dress just above my hip.

"Oh, I bet you do," Mina chimed in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that she didn't bother to hide. She leaned in closer, invading our personal space just enough to be daring. "So, tell us, handsome. Does Sana boss you around at home, or are you the one in charge there? You seem very... obedient."

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, I felt the hand resting on my hip glide slowly downwards, his fingers splaying wide over the curve of my thigh, pulling me tighter against him until there was absolutely no space left between us. The movement was subtle, hidden beneath the table and the shadows of the VIP booth, but the message was clear. He was staking his claim, right in front of them.

"I think you’ll find," he said, his voice dropping an octave, silencing Mina’s playful teasing instantly, "that we have a very equal partnership. Isn't that right, Sana?"

I looked down at him, my breath catching in my throat at the dark, predatory look in his blue eyes. He wasn't the shy, tranquil boy I had dressed up an hour ago; he was something else entirely now—something dangerous and thrillingly possessive.

"Equal?" Mina repeated, her feline eyes narrowing as she picked up on the shift in the air. She tapped a manicured nail against her glass, a knowing smirk curling her lips. "Is that what we're calling it? It looked an awful lot like you were taking orders back at the door, sweetheart."

"He lets me think I'm in charge," I interjected quickly, my voice sounding breathless even to my own ears. I took a hasty sip of my champagne to hide the flush rising in my cheeks, the bubbles doing little to quell the heat pooling in my stomach. I shifted on his lap again, trying to find a position that didn't press his hardened length so directly against my bottom, but it was a futile effort. He was rock hard, and he wanted me to know it.

"He's very good at that," Tzuyu observed, her gaze still fixed on him with an intensity that usually made lesser men wither. She swirled her drink, the ice clinking softly. "Listening, observing. But smart boys know when to stay quiet and when to... speak up."

Nayeon let out a loud, unladylike snort, breaking the heavy tension that had settled over the table. She reached for the bottle of vodka, topping up her glass with a generous pour. "Oh, don't mind Tzuyu," she said, waving a dismissive hand in our direction. "She’s just salty because she hasn't found a man who can keep up with her yet. You're doing alright, kid. As long as you can keep Sana smiling, you're good in my books."

"I second that", Mina purred, her gaze softening as she took a long sip of her drink, though her eyes continued to flicker between us, clearly enjoying the show. "There is something very... alluring about a young man who knows his place. Or yours," she added with a wicked grin.

I felt the tension in his jaw ease slightly against my shoulder, the predator receding just enough to let the tranquil mask slip back into place. He was incredibly adaptable, shifting seamlessly from the dominant lover to the polite, composed son whenever the situation required. It made my head spin.

"Would you girls mind a question?" He  asked suddenly, his voice cutting through the thumping bass and the steady hum of conversation.

"Anything for you, handsome," Nayeon replied instantly, leaning forward with a playful glint in her eyes, clearly enjoying the attention.

He didn't look at her, though. His gaze remained fixed on the dance floor below, watching the writhing mass of bodies with a detached, analytical interest, even as his hand continued to stroke my hip, his thumb rubbing slow, maddening circles against my skin. "Sana mentions she often comes here to... let loose. Does she attract a lot of attention when she's alone?"

The question hung in the air for a moment, heavy with implication, before the girls erupted into a chorus of laughter. It was a bright, musical sound, but underneath it, I could sense the shift in atmosphere as they exchanged knowing glances.

"Attract attention?" Mina repeated, wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of her eye. "Sweetheart, Sana doesn't just attract attention; she absorbs it. When she walks onto that floor, she becomes the centre of gravity."

"It's true", Nayeon added, leaning back and draping her arm over the booth behind her, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "You have to beat them off with a stick. Men, women... they all want a piece of her. She’s a firecracker, that one. Always has been."

Tzuyu hummed in agreement, her gaze drifting from the chaotic dance floor back to us, her eyes lingering on the possessive grip he had on my waist. "She's right. Sana feeds off the energy. She loves being looked at, being wanted. But she rarely goes home with anyone. Usually, she just likes to tease and leave them wanting." Tzuyu’s eyes locked onto his, a challenge glittering in their depths. "She seems to have found a solution to that problem lately, hasn't she?"

I felt the muscles beneath me bunch and tighten, a subtle reminder of the power contained in that youthful, lean frame. He didn't rise to the bait, though. Instead, he took another slow sip of his champagne, his eyes never leaving Tzuyu’s.

"It's up to her to say it," he replied with a calm voice. "I can only grant you; she knows she can rely on me."

The table went quiet at that, the bass-heavy thrum of the club seeming to swell in the sudden silence. Tzuyu held his gaze for a long, lingering moment, her analytical expression cracking just enough to reveal a flash of genuine surprise. Then, a slow, appreciative smile spread across her face.

"Smart and dangerous", Tzuyu murmured, lifting her glass in a silent toast. "I like that. You’re not just a pretty face, are you?"

"I told you", I beamed, wiggling my hips again, unable to resist the urge to torment him just a little more. I felt the heavy ridge of his erection twitch beneath me, a silent response to my movement. "He’s perfect."

His hands moved down to my thighs; his touch was light like a feather. "Objectively", he stated. "You are all gorgeous women, and I cannot fathom why there is no one at your side."

Mina let out a soft, incredulous laugh, the sound like silk rubbing together. She tipped her head back, exposing the slender line of her throat as she looked up at the ceiling lights. "Oh, darling," she sighed, bringing her gaze back down to him with a heavy, hooded look. "It’s because we eat men like you for breakfast and spit them out before lunch. Finding someone who can handle us is... a full-time occupation."

"Especially when you have high standards," Nayeon added, though her eyes softened as she looked at him. She swirled the vodka in her glass, the ice clinking rhythmically. "Most boys are either terrified of us or trying to get into our knickers within five minutes. You don't seem to be doing either. It’s... refreshing."

"I have everything I need right here," he said simply, his voice vibrating through my back where I leaned against him. The hand on my thigh gave a gentle squeeze, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin just above the lace of my stockings. The friction was maddening, a slow burn that was making it increasingly difficult to maintain the bubbly, carefree façade I usually wore around them.

"I'm sure you do," Mina purred, her gaze lingering on his hand where it disappeared under the hem of her dress. The dark, knowing look in her eyes suggested she suspected exactly what those fingers were up to beneath the table. "But surely you don't intend to keep Sana all to yourself every night? That’s rather greedy, isn't it?"

"He’s young, Mina," Nayeon teased, though there was a slight edge to her voice. She leaned closer, invading his space again, her perfume—a sweet, intoxicating mix of jasmine and vanilla—clouding my senses. "He’s in the prime of his youth. He should be out having fun, making mistakes, breaking hearts. Not playing the devoted husband."

I felt a ripple of unease pass through him, a subtle stiffening of his spine against my back. The tranquil mask slipped for a fraction of a second, revealing a flash of that protective, territorial instinct I admired so much. He didn't like the implication that he was missing out, or worse, that I was holding him back.

"He isn't missing out on anything," I said quickly, perhaps a bit too sharply, keen to defend my darling boy before his tranquil veneer could crack completely. I reached up, threading my fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, a soothing gesture meant to calm us both. "He’s exactly where he wants to be. Besides, who says he can't have fun with me? We have plenty of fun."

"Fun," Mina repeated, drawing the word out until it sounded positively filthy. She took a slow sip of her drink, her eyes never leaving his face. "I'm sure you do. But variety is the spice of life, isn't it, handsome? Surely your mother has told you about our... little traditions?"

The air in the booth seemed to thicken, charged with a sudden, heavy tension. I knew exactly what Mina was hinting at. Our nights out often ended in a blur of tangled limbs and shared partners, a hedonistic free-for-all that we had indulged in for years. But this was different. This was him. The very idea of sharing him, of watching Mina or Nayeon run their hands over the body that was currently pressed so intimately against mine, sparked a violent rush of jealousy that I wasn't entirely prepared for.

"Mina, calm down," Tzuyu interjected smoothly, though her eyes danced with wicked amusement as she watched the interplay. "You're going to scare the poor thing."

"Don't talk like you are not interested, Tzuyu," Mina retorted. "I saw you ogling him."

Tzuyu didn't deny it. Instead, she swirled the champagne in her glass, her eyes fixed on me with a predatory glint that made my skin prickle. "I'm just appreciating the view, darling. There's no harm in looking. Though I must admit," she paused, her gaze dropping to my lips, "I am curious to see if he tastes as good as he looks."

My son stiffened beneath me, his fingers tightening almost imperceptibly on my thigh. It wasn't fear; it was a territorial warning. "Hold your knickers, ladies," I told them. "Before even considering doing anything to him, you have to ask me. He is my son, and although I've never been greedy, I'm not exactly ready to share him. Especially when I know how good he is."

I felt his chest expand against my back as he took a deep breath, his tranquil mask slipping just enough to reveal a flicker of dark amusement. He didn't seem offended by their hunger; if anything, he appeared to view it as a scientific curiosity, like a specimen under a microscope that had just learnt it could bite back.

"Wouldn't be helpful to blow a bit of steam to dance?" He  asked, his voice a smooth counterpoint to the rising tension at the table.

Tzuyu let out a low, appreciative hum, setting her glass down with a decisive click. "He’s got a point," she declared, standing up in one fluid, graceful motion. The hem of her slip dress rode up just enough to show miles of leg, but her eyes were fixed squarely on us. "Sitting here is all well and good, but the music is calling. I’d love to see how our young knight moves."

"I second that," Nayeon chimed, already wiggling out of the booth. She grabbed my hand, her grip firm and insistent. "Come on, Sana! Bring your boy and let's go show this floor how it's done."

I allowed Nayeon to pull me up, the sudden loss of contact making me feel oddly cold despite the stifling heat of the club. My son rose smoothly behind me, adjusting his cuffs with that infuriatingly calm demeanour, though his eyes burnt with a dark, possessive light as he glanced at the other women.

I saw him offering his hand to Mina and Tzuyu with that old-school, gentlemanly charm that seemed so incongruous with his youth, yet fit him perfectly. Mina accepted immediately, her eyes glinting with mischief, while Tzuyu simply smirked, placing her elegant fingers in her palm with an air of regal acceptance. Nayeon, ever the bundle of energy, was already dragging me towards the pulsing heart of the dance floor, weaving through the crowd with practised ease.

The transition from the plush, purple-hued sanctuary of the VIP booth to the main floor was jarring. Here, the air was thick with humidity and the scent of sweat and expensive cologne. The bass was no longer just a sound; it was a physical force, vibrating in my lungs and rattling my teeth. Strobe lights slashed through the darkness, illuminating the writhing mass of bodies in fragmented snapshots of ecstasy.

We found a small pocket of space amidst the chaos, and I immediately turned to him. The girls formed a loose circle around us, a protective yet predatory formation that isolated us from the rest of the club. Nayeon was the first to start moving, her body fluid and rhythmic, her arms raised high as she lost herself in the beat. Mina and Tzuyu followed suit, their movements more sultry, more calculated, designed to draw the eye.

"Well then, my knight," I shouted over the deafening roar of the bass, stepping into his personal space. "Show us what you've got. Don't leave me hanging!"

I didn't wait for a verbal response. I couldn't. The music was a frantic, electro-house beat that demanded movement, a primal rhythm that vibrated in my very marrow. I turned around, pressing my back against his chest, and began to move. I let my body take over, rolling my hips in slow, deliberate circles that I knew would drive him insane. My hands came up, tangling in my hair, arching my back to press my bottom firmly against the front of his trousers.

His response was immediate and electrifying. His hands, of course, settled firmly on my hips, gripping me with a confidence that made my knees weak. He didn't just stand there; he moved with me, matching the roll of my hips with a fluidity that contradicted his usual tranquil stillness. It was a dominant rhythm, a silent assertion that he was the one leading this dance, even if I was the one setting the pace.

I could feel every inch of him against my backside, hard and insistent, separated only by the thin layers of our clothes. The friction was maddening, a delicious tease that promised so much more. I leaned my head back against his shoulder, letting out a breathless laugh that was swallowed by the pounding music. I felt invincible, grinding against the most handsome man in the room, who just happened to be my son.

"Looks like our knight can move," Mina purred, appearing in front of us. She didn't stay at a distance; she closed the gap, moving with a feline grace that brought her body flush against mine. She placed her hands on my waist, her fingers brushing tantalisingly close to where his hands held me.

Mina’s presence was like a sudden wave of heat, her dark eyes locking onto mine with a mischievous glint as she pressed closer. The three of us were fused together in a rhythm that felt illicit and dangerously thrilling. My son didn't falter; if anything, his grip on my hips tightened, anchoring me against him while Mina invaded our space from the front. I was sandwiched between the two of them, caught in a crossfire of desire and tension that made my head spin.

"Having fun, knight?" Mina mouthed, her lips brushing against my ear, though her gaze was fixed pointedly over my shoulder at him. Her hands slid down to my waist, teasingly close to mine, her fingers tracing the sequins of my dress.

"He seems to be enjoying himself," I managed to gasp back, feeling the hard evidence of his enjoyment digging into my lower back. He was rolling his hips in time with the bass, a slow, dirty grind that mimicked exactly how he moved when we were alone in my bed.

"Careful, Mina," he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, managing to cut through the relentless thud of the bass. His lips grazed the sensitive shell of my ear, sending a violent shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the music. "You're playing a dangerous game getting this close."

Mina didn't so much as flinch. Instead, she threw her head back and laughed, a dark, sultry sound that seemed to resonate in her chest. She pressed even closer, her body flush against mine, trapping me between her softness and his overwhelming hardness. "I like danger," she mouthed back, her eyes flicking down to his hands on my hips before meeting his gaze again. "And I think you do too."

Before the tension could snap something vital inside me, a pair of arms wrapped around my waist from the side, pulling me slightly away from the centre of our heated triangle. It was Nayeon, vibrating with an infectious, bubbly energy that cut through the heavy fog of lust.

"Come on, you two! Don't hog all the fun!" Nayeon shouted, her voice a bright bell against the deep thrum of the bass. She tugged me away with surprising strength, breaking the seal between my back and his chest. I stumbled slightly, the sudden loss of his warmth leaving me feeling bereft and dizzy, but Nayeon just laughed, spinning me around until I was facing her. "Let's show these kids how it's done, Sana!"

I threw my head back and laughed, the sound bubbling up from my chest, instantly swept up in her chaotic energy. We danced together, moving in sync like we had done a hundred times before, our bodies mirroring each other, hands roaming freely over each other's arms and waists. It was familiar and safe, a grounded anchor amidst the storm of illicit desire swirling in my head.

But I couldn't keep my eyes off him.

He stood there for a moment, a solitary pillar of calm amidst the chaotic sea of writhing bodies, his blue eyes tracking my every movement with an intensity that made my skin flush. He looked dangerous, a predator waiting patiently for his prey to return to the fold. But he wasn't alone for long.

Tzuyu, graceful and silent as a panther, slid into the space I had vacated. She didn't bounce or shimmy like Nayeon; she flowed, moving with a hypnotic, liquid grace that drew the eye instantly. She stopped right in front of him, close enough that I could see the challenging arch of her brow even from a few feet away.

I watched, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs that had nothing to do with the music, as she began to dance around him. It was a calculated seduction, a slow orbit designed to test his composure. She turned, pressing her back to his chest, mimicking the position I had just occupied, and rolled her hips in a slow, agonising grind.

A sharp, visceral pang of jealousy pierced through the haze of alcohol and bass, sharp enough to make me falter in my steps. Seeing another woman—any woman, let alone Tzuyu with her model-good looks and effortless grace—press her body against his felt like a violation. He was mine. The possessive instinct that roared to life inside me was terrifyingly primal, far beyond the protective maternal urges I was used to.

I was about to pull away from Nayeon, ready to march over there and stake my claim with my claws bared, when I saw how he reacted.

He matched her movement without crossing the line, a fluid, synchronised grind that was technically perfect yet emotionally detached. His hands rested lightly on Tzuyu’s hips, not with the hungry, proprietorial grip he used on me, but with the polite, distant restraint of a dance partner executing a choreography. He looked over her shoulder, his gaze instantly finding mine amidst the flashing lasers and swirling crowd. The corner of his mouth ticked up in a subtle, almost imperceptible smirk, a silent reassurance that shouted, 'I'm right here, Mum.' I’m only playing the game.

It was the look in his eyes that undid me—the calm, unwavering blue anchor that held me steady whilst the club threatened to spin out of control. He knew I was watching. He knew exactly what he was doing, stoking the fires of my jealousy just to prove a point: he could handle them, but he belonged to me.

"Earth to Sana!" Nayeon’s voice cut through my trance, accompanied by a playful shove to my shoulder. "You're staring like a lovesick puppy! If you keep looking at them like that, you might burn a hole in Tzuyu’s back."

I blinked, tearing my gaze away from the sight of Tzuyu grinding against my son, and forced a laugh that sounded slightly strangled even to my own ears. "Can you blame me?" I shot back at Nayeon, trying to regain my bubbly composure. "I have the hottest date on the floor. It’s only natural I want to keep my eyes on the prize."

Nayeon cackled, throwing her head back, her blonde hair whipping around her face. "Possessive, much? I like it. It’s fierce." She grabbed my hand, spinning me around again, but my body was resisting the momentum, yearning to be back where the heat was radiating from.

"I'm just saying, he’s quite the catch." Nayeon leaned in close, shouting over the beat. "Even if he is a bit... young for the usual crowd. He handles himself well."

The track transitioned from a frantic electro-house beat into something deeper, a sensual R&B remix that thrummed through the floorboards like a slow, steady heartbeat. The change in tempo was my cue. I peeled myself away from Nayeon, ignoring her playful pout of protest, and cut a path through the dancing crowd with single-minded determination.

I didn't walk; I stalked.

Tzuyu was still grinding against him, her movements fluid and hypnotic, but as I approached, she sensed the shift in the air. She turned her head, a knowing smirk plastered on her face, and stepped aside with the graciousness of a queen relinquishing her throne—though her eyes lingered on him with a hunger that made my blood boil.

I didn't hesitate. I stepped straight into the space she’d vacated, claiming my territory with a possessive determination that surprised even me. Pressing my back against his chest, I felt the immediate, hard contact of his body, solid and reassuring. The contrast between Tzuyu’s distant grace and the heated reality of him was stark.

"Missed me?" I purred, tilting my head back to look up at him, letting my body roll sensually to the slower, sultry rhythm of the new track.

His hands instantly found my hips, his fingers digging in with that familiar, hungry grip that had been absent when he danced with Tzuyu. "Immensely", he murmured, his breath hot against my ear. "She dances well, but she doesn't feel like you."

I let out a breathless sigh, letting his words wash over me, soothing the jagged edges of my jealousy. "She certainly doesn't," I agreed, grinding my hips back against him with a deliberate, slow roll that left him in no doubt about who he belonged to. "And don't you forget it, knight."

He didn't reply with words, but the sharp intake of breath I heard against my neck and the way his hands flexed on my waist were answer enough. We moved together in the dim light, isolated in our own little bubble of lascivious intent while the club throbbed around us. The music was slower now, a heavy, sensual beat that allowed for bodies to press closer, for movements to become more suggestive, more intimate.

I was lost in the sensation of him—the hard planes of his chest against my spine, the thick ridge of his erection nestled against my bottom, and the scent of his cologne mixed with the faint smell of our shared arousal. It was intoxicating, a heady cocktail that made me feel bold and invincible.

After a bunch of songs more, we all retreated to the booth, breathless and glistening with a fine sheen of perspiration. The alcohol had flowed freely, and the girls were positively buzzing, a chaotic tangle of limbs and laughter as we collapsed onto the plush leather. My son sat down first, looking remarkably unruffled save for the darkened intensity in his eyes, and I immediately reclaimed my place on his lap, draping my arm around his neck like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"So", Nayeon drawled, fanning herself with a cocktail napkin, her cheeks flushed a pretty pink. "Are we doing this, or what? My place is empty, and I just bought a new bottle of gin that is screaming to be opened."

I stiffened slightly, the implication hanging heavy in the air. We often ended our nights at one of our apartments, continuing the party in more intimate surroundings. But tonight, I wasn't just with the girls. I felt the muscles beneath me tense in agreement; he had no intention of becoming a plaything for the group, no matter how much they seemed to covet him.

"I won't let you play with him," I replied. "But I am going to be merciful; you can watch."

The silence that descended over the booth was absolute. For a moment, even the relentless thumping of the bass seemed to fade into the background, drowned out by the sheer weight of my declaration. The three of them stared at me, their expressions a frozen tableau of shock, quickly followed by a dawning, wicked comprehension.

"Watch?" Tzuyu repeated, her voice dropping to a sultry whisper. She slowly placed her glass on the table, the movement deliberate and predatory. She leaned forward, her dark eyes gleaming with a mixture of intrigue and lascivious hunger. "Do you mean...?"

"Exactly what I said," I confirmed, feeling the thrill of the forbidden course through my veins like liquid fire. I shifted slightly on his lap, relishing the way his hardness pulsed against me, a silent testament to his arousal at the prospect. "You want to see if the knight can match the fair maiden's stamina? You want to see if he's truly as good as I claim? Then you can sit back, sip your gin, and enjoy the show."

A collective shiver seemed to run through the group. Nayeon’s mouth fell open slightly before snapping shut with a click of her teeth, her eyes sparkling with unadulterated delight. Mina let out a low, appreciative hum, her gaze darkening as it bored into us, already undressing him in her mind. But it was Tzuyu’s reaction that satisfied me the most. She didn't look away; she leaned in, hungry and unblinking, accepting the challenge I had laid down.

"Bold", Tzuyu breathed, her voice barely audible over the music. "I didn't think you had it in you to share even a glimpse, Sana. But I accept. If I have to settle for watching, I intend to see everything."

Nayeon’s apartment was a sleek, modern expanse of floor-to-ceiling windows and white furniture, currently bathed in the soft, amber glow of the city lights below. The air was thick with anticipation and the sharp scent of gin as we filed in, the chaotic energy of the club having dissolved into a focused, predatory tension.

I felt my son’s hand resting firmly against the small of my back, a silent anchor in the storm. He was calm, exuding that tranquil aura that always made my heart race, but I knew him well enough to sense the coiled spring beneath his composed exterior. He was ready.

"Drinks first, I think," Nayeon announced, heading straight for the kitchen. She returned moments later with a crystal decanter and four tumblers, pouring generous measures with a shaky hand that betrayed her own excitement. "To the show," she toasted, her eyes glinting as she handed a glass to Tzuyu, then Mina.

Mina accepted hers with a languid grace, her eyes never leaving my son, who politely declined the alcohol with a soft "No, thank you. I prefer to keep a clear head for... performance."

"Smart boy," Tzuyu murmured, taking a slow sip of her drink before gesturing towards the expansive white rug in the centre of the living room. It lay before the floor-to-ceiling windows like a stage, the city lights of Tokyo sprawling out beneath it, a glittering backdrop for the depravity about to unfold. "The floor is yours. Don't disappoint us."

I felt a tremor of nervous excitement race down my spine, mixing with the champagne’s potent buzz. This was it. The ultimate exhibition. I was about to let my friends witness the most intimate, forbidden part of my life. I looked up at him, searching for any sign of hesitation, but found only that dark, bottomless ocean of blue staring back at me, filled with a quiet, burning intensity.

I took a deep breath, letting the alcohol fizz in my veins, giving me that extra push of courage I needed. I didn't wait for him to make the first move; the night had been about me taking what I wanted, and I wasn't about to stop now. I reached for the hem of my sequined dress and, with a fluid motion, pulled it up and over my head.

The air in the room was cool against my heated skin, but the looks from my friends were incinerating. I stood before them in nothing but my sheer black stockings, suspender belt, and a pair of lace panties that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. I kicked the dress aside, hearing it rustle softly on the hardwood floor.

"Ready to see what all the fuss is about?" I asked, my voice breathless and high, pitching it to carry across the room.

The three of them didn't answer with words. Instead, they settled onto the long, white sectional sofa like queens awaiting a spectacle, their drinks held loosely in their hands but their eyes fixed unblinkingly on me. The tension in the room was thick enough to choke on, a heady mix of voyeuristic curiosity and raw lust.

My son, ever the composed actor in my play, stepped forward. He didn't look at them; his attention was entirely focused on me, stripping away the audience until it felt as though we were the only two people in Tokyo. He reached out, his fingers grazing the bare skin of my waist, sending a jolt of electricity through my system.

"You are breathtaking," he murmured, his voice low and intimate, meant solely for my ears despite the acoustics of the room.

He didn't wait for a response, nor did he give me time to succumb to the sudden rush of bashfulness that threatened to colour my cheeks. With a gentle but insistent pressure on my shoulders, he guided me down onto the plush white rug. The fibres were soft against my knees, a stark contrast to the hard floor of the club, and the sensation of being centred in the room—like a prize exhibit—made my blood hum with a mixture of shame and exhilaration.

From the corner of my eye, I saw the three of them shifting on the sofa. Nayeon had perched on the edge of her seat, her knuckles white as she gripped her glass, her bunny-like eyes wide and unblinking. Mina had reclined, her dark gaze hooded and heavy, trailing over my exposed skin with a slow, deliberating heat that felt like a physical touch. And Tzuyu... Tzuyu was simply watching, her chin resting in her palm, a small, satisfied smirk playing on her lips as if she were observing a particularly interesting experiment.

My son knelt before me, blocking out the city lights, his frame dominating my vision. He reached out with those long, elegant fingers and hooked them into the lace of my panties. The drag of the fabric against my thighs as he slid them down was agonisingly slow, a tease that drew a ragged gasp from my throat. When they pooled at my knees, he helped me extricate my legs, leaving me clad only in stockings and suspenders.

The cool air of the apartment kissed my heated skin, raising gooseflesh along my thighs, but the heat in his eyes was enough to burn me alive. He didn't rush. His hands, those large, capable hands that had been teasing me all night, trailed back up my legs, his thumbs pressing into the sensitive flesh of my inner thighs, urging them apart.

I obeyed without thought, opening myself to him, to them. The sheer debauchery of the situation hit me with a dizzying rush—I was Sana, the bubbly, vivacious friend, usually the one teasing the men, but here I was, exposed and vulnerable on my knees before my fifteen-year-old son while my best friends watched like hawks.

"Look at you," he murmured, his voice a rough scrape of sound that seemed to echo in the silent room. "So eager."

I didn't care about their eyes on me anymore; all that mattered was the dark, predatory glint in his blue gaze. He leaned forward, his breath ghosting over my exposed, slick folds, and I shivered violently. The anticipation was a taut wire pulled tight inside my abdomen, ready to snap.

"Do not take your eyes off her," he commanded, his voice cutting through the silence like a whip crack. He didn't look back at the sofa to see if they obeyed, but I heard the collective intake of breath and the rustle of fabric as they shifted to get a better view. "I want you to see who she belongs to."

With a groan that sounded more like a growl, he buried his face between my thighs. The first drag of his tongue against my clit was electric, a shockwave that ripped a cry from my throat and bowed my spine. He didn't start slow; he attacked with a hunger that mirrored my own insatiable need, licking and sucking with a fervour that made my head spin.

The sensation was overwhelming, a white-hot surge of pleasure that obliterated the thought of our audience from my mind, at least for a moment. His tongue was wickedly clever, flicking and circling my clit with a precision that spoke of hours of practice—practice that I had happily provided. He knew exactly how to flatten it to maximise surface area, then curl it to tease that sensitive bundle of nerves, driving me closer to the edge with every pass.

"God, look at that," Nayeon’s voice drifted to me, sounding distant and warped, as if she were speaking underwater. "Look at how he devours her. I've never seen a man eat pussy like that."

"He certainly doesn't eat like a fifteen-year-old," Mina agreed, her tone thick with appreciation. "Sana, you lucky bitch. His technique is... impeccable."

"Impeccable?" Tzuyu’s cool, analytical voice cut through the haze of my pleasure, forcing me to blink my eyes open and focus on the three women watching us. She hadn't moved from her relaxed pose, but her eyes were dark, fixed intently on the point where my son’s mouth met my body. "It’s not just technique, Mina. It’s devotion. Look at the way he holds her thighs. He’s not just doing it for the pleasure; he’s worshipping."

She was right. Even in the throes of my rapidly unravelling control, I could feel it in the way his fingers dug into the soft flesh of my hips, anchoring me to him. He was devouring me with a single-minded intensity that went far beyond simple lust. He was proving a point to every woman in that room—*and* to himself. I was his. Completely.

He shifted his attention, dragging his tongue lower to circle my entrance, collecting the slick arousal that was practically dripping from me. The sound of his lapping was obscenely loud in the quiet room, a wet, rhythmic noise that made my face burn even as my hips bucked instinctively against his face.

He groaned against me, the vibration shooting straight up my spine and making my toes curl in the carpet. The sound was primal, a possessive rumble that seemed to say mine and mine alone. He brought a hand up, those long, slender fingers that had been resting so innocently on my thigh all night now sliding effortlessly inside me. The stretch was exquisite, a sudden, full pressure that made my breath hitch in a broken sob.

He didn't pump aimlessly; he curled his fingers upwards, finding that spongy, sensitive spot inside me with unerring accuracy, while his mouth resumed its assault on my clit. It was a double-pronged attack of sensory overload, a masterclass in pleasure that had my thighs trembling around his head. I could feel the pressure building rapidly, a tight, coiling knot in my stomach that threatened to snap at any second.

"She's close already," Tzuyu observed, her voice maddeningly calm and analytical. "Look at the way her stomach muscles are contracting. He’s found the spot, hasn't he?"

"He certainly has," I managed to gasp out, my voice sounding ragged and foreign to my own ears. I couldn't have stayed quiet if I’d tried. The dual sensation of his fingers crooking inside me, stroking that hidden place with devastating precision, and his tongue working my clit with relentless, rhythmic pressure was too much to bear. "He... oh god... he knows exactly what he's doing."

"He's relentless," Mina murmured, her voice husky with desire. I could hear the distinct sound of glass clinking against a coaster; she was shifting, unable to sit still. "Look at the control he has. Most boys would be rutting by now, but he’s taking his time. Savouring it."

My son didn't react to their commentary, save for a low, vibrating hum against my flesh that sent fresh jolts of electricity arcing through my nervous system. He was locked in, entirely focused on the task of unravelling me. He increased the pace of his fingers just slightly, a subtle adjustment that felt like turning up the dial on an electric current, while his lips sealed around my clit and sucked hard.

The dam broke. It wasn't a gentle tide but a violent, crashing wave that obliterated every thought in my head. My back bowed off the floor, a sharp, keening cry tearing from my throat as the orgasm slammed into me with the force of a freight train. My vision blurred, the expensive lights of the Tokyo skyline streaking into indistinguishable lines of colour, and for a moment, I was weightless, suspended in a void of pure, unadulterated ecstasy.

He didn't stop. He rode me through it, his tongue flicking mercilessly against my over-sensitive clit while his fingers continued to curl inside me, drawing out every last drop of pleasure until I was a trembling, sobbing mess beneath him.

When he finally pulled away, the cool air rushing in to replace the heat of his mouth felt almost like a physical blow. I lay there gasping, my chest heaving, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Through the haze of my afterglow, I could hear the ragged breathing of my friends from the sofa, a collective sound of arousal that matched my own.

He rose slowly, towering over me like a colossus, his face glistening with my essence in the low light. It was an obscenely beautiful sight. He didn't immediately reach for his belt; instead, he looked down at me with that tranquil satisfaction, as if I were a canvas he had just finished painting.

"You know what to do," he urged me.

The command hung in the air, thick with authority and an unspoken challenge. My body, still humming with the residual tremors of my orgasm, moved on autopilot. I wanted to please him, to show these women—these beautiful, cynical women who thought they knew everything about pleasure—that what we had was something else entirely.

I pushed myself up from the floor, my muscles feeling like jelly, but the adrenaline coursing through my veins gave me strength. I knelt before him, reaching out with trembling fingers to the leather belt of his trousers. The buckle clinked softly in the quiet room, the sound sharp and distinct against the backdrop of heavy breathing.

I looked up at him, my eyes wide and submissive, seeking his approval. He gazed down at me, his expression unreadable but for the darkening of his blue eyes, which burned with a possessive fire. He didn't help me; he simply watched, letting me serve him, letting me put on the show he had demanded.

I undid the button with trembling fingers; the sound of the zipper sliding down seemed deafening in the hushed apartment. With a tug, I freed him, his erection springing forth to slap heavily against his abdomen. The sight of him never failed to steal my breath—thick, flushed, and angrily erect, the veins standing out in stark relief against the pale skin.

"Oh my," Nayeon whispered, the sound breaking the spell. "Sana... you weren't exaggerating. He's... magnificent."

I wrapped my hand around the base, savouring the familiar, velvety heat of him. He was steel encased in silk, throbbing in my grip. I leaned in, inhaling his scent—musk, sex, and that clean, unique smell that was purely him—before darting my tongue out to lap at the bead of precum glistening at the tip. He tasted salty and bitter, a flavour that made my mouth water and my core clench in desperate need.

I wrapped my lips around the head, sucking gently, swirling my tongue over the sensitive slit. A low hiss escaped him, his hand moving to the back of my head, his fingers tangling in my hair, but he didn't force me down. He held me there, a grounding weight, letting me set the pace even though we both knew he was the one in control.

I took him deeper, relaxing my throat to accommodate his impressive girth, hollowing my cheeks as I bobbed my head. I could feel the eyes of my friends boring into us, their gaze a physical weight that only heightened the intensity. I wanted them to see. I wanted them to see how well I took him, how perfectly we fit together.

"Look at the enthusiasm," Tzuyu murmured, her voice thick with a rare, unguarded lust. "She really is insatiable, isn't she?"

"He's lucky to have found a match," Mina replied, her voice raspy. I heard the distinct clink of ice against glass as she took a desperate sip of her drink, as if she needed it to cool down. "Most men would have spent themselves by now. Look at him. He’s holding back."

The praise washed over me, mingling with the salty taste of him on my tongue. I redoubled my efforts, taking him deeper until the tip hit the back of my throat, suppressing the gag reflex through years of practice and sheer determination. I wanted to devour him whole, to prove that I was the only one who could handle him like this.

"Enough", he said suddenly, his voice tight with restrained effort. His hand in my hair tightened, not to hurt, but to still my movements. "I don't want to finish in your mouth. Not tonight."

The word was a command, sharp and absolute, cutting through the heavy, lust-charged air like a knife. I froze immediately, my lips still wrapped around the velvety head of his cock, my eyes darting upwards to meet his gaze. His jaw was set tight, a muscle fluttering beneath the skin, and his blue eyes were dark, swirling storms of need and dominance.

He pulled me up by my hair, not roughly, but with an insistent, guiding force that made me gasp as I was hauled to my feet. My legs felt shaky, weak from the orgasm that still hummed in my nerve endings, but he steadied me with a hand on my waist, spinning me around to face the sofa.

"Look at them," he murmured against my ear, his breath hot and ragged. "Look at your audience."

I blinked, the sudden reorientation of the room sending a fresh wave of dizziness through me. I was facing them now—the three women who had been my confidantes, my partners in crime, and now my voyeurs. Nayeon was leaning so far forward I thought she might tumble off the sofa, her eyes wide and glassy, darting between my face and the imposing figure looming behind me. Mina had abandoned all pretence of composure, her legs crossed tightly, a flush creeping down her neck. And Tzuyu... Tzuyu’s gaze was fixed on my son’s face with an almost frightening hunger.

"He really is magnificent, Sana," Tzuyu breathed, her voice barely carrying over the sound of her own ragged breathing. "I hope you appreciate what you have there."

"I do," I whimpered, the truth of it hitting me with the force of a physical blow. I appreciated every inch of him, every dark, possessive thought that crossed his mind.

I felt the heavy heat of him against my lower back, a stark reminder of what was to come. He didn't give me a moment to gather my scattered thoughts. With a firm hand between my shoulder blades, he guided me down, bending me over until my hands braced against the soft cushions of the sofa, right in front of Nayeon.

My face was inches from Nayeon’s knees. I could smell her perfume—sweet and cloying—and feel the radiant heat coming off her body. She was trembling, her eyes wide and locked onto mine, mirroring the shock and exhilaration coursing through my own system.

"Are you ready, Mum?" he asked, his voice a low, dark rumble that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards and straight into my very core.

"I was born ready, sweetheart," I breathed, arching my back to present myself to him, a wanton offering amidst the expensive decor. The position was humiliating and exhilarating all at once. I was bent double, my face inches from my best friend's lap, about to be taken by my son while the city lights watched indifferently through the glass.

I felt the blunt, heat-heavy head of his cock nudge against my entrance, slicking itself through my wetness. The anticipation was a sweet torture. Behind me, he was the picture of composure, but I could feel the tremor in his thighs where they brushed against the back of my legs. He was just as affected as I was, despite the mask.

"Look at me, Sana," Nayeon whispered, her voice trembling. She reached out, her hand hovering for a moment before she gently brushed a stray lock of hair from my face. Her eyes were swimming with a mix of shock and dark fascination. "I want to see your face when he... when he claims you."

"Then watch closely," he growled, the sound barely human, and then he drove forward.

The invasion was absolute. He didn't ease into it; he took me with a single, powerful thrust that seated him to the hilt, sheathing every inch of his hard length inside me. The force of it punched the air from my lungs, a ragged, silent scream tearing at my throat as my body stretched to accommodate him. My fingers dug into the expensive fabric of Nayeon’s sofa, knuckles turning white as I braced myself against the sudden, overwhelming fullness.

"Fuck!" I gasped, the word exploding from me as my head fell back, my eyes squeezing shut. It felt like he was splitting me open, a perfect, burning stretch that obliterated every thought in my head except for the sheer, blinding reality of him inside me.

It was a possession, pure and simple. He didn't wait for my body to adjust to the sudden, searing intrusion; he withdrew almost entirely, leaving me feeling achingly empty, before slamming back in with a force that made my teeth rattle. The sofa creaked in protest, a rhythmic accompaniment to the wet, obscene sound of our bodies colliding.

"Look at her face," he commanded, his voice a guttural growl that seemed to come from deep within his chest. One hand gripped my hip hard enough to bruise, anchoring me in place, while the other tangled in my hair, pulling my head back just enough to force my gaze upwards. "Don't look away. I want them to see who owns you."

My eyes fluttered open, struggling to focus through the haze of overwhelming sensation. Nayeon was right there, her face a mask of enraptured shock. Her lips were parted, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps that mirrored my own. She wasn't looking at him; she was looking at me, drinking in the expression of twisted ecstasy on my face as if it were the finest champagne.

"God, she's taking all of it," Mina murmured from her perch on the arm of the sofa, her voice sounding distant and warped, as if I were hearing it underwater. Her dark eyes were fixed on the point where our bodies joined, watching the ruthless, rhythmic thrusting with a clinical fascination that only heightened my shame. "Look at how she stretches around him. It’s... mesmerising."

"He’s ruining her for anyone else," Tzuyu added, her tone cool but laced with a thick, heavy heat. She hadn’t touched her drink since the performance began; her hands were resting on her knees, clenched into tight fists. "I’ve never seen anything like this. The power... it’s intoxicating."

I could feel the heat of their gazes like a physical weight, burning my skin, but the pleasure was a tidal wave that threatened to drown me completely. He was hitting a depth inside me a place that made my vision blur and my toes curl against the plush rug. The wet, slapping sound of skin against skin was obscene, echoing in the high-ceilinged room, but it was the sound of his ragged breathing, hot and heavy against my ear, that undid me.

The pressure inside me built to an unbearable crescendo, a tight coil of heat wound deep in my stomach that was ready to snap. Every thrust knocked a fresh cry from my lips, raw and unfiltered music to his ears. The stretch was exquisite, a burning fullness that made me feel possessed, owned, entirely at his mercy.

"Look at them, Mum," he gritted out, his rhythm never faltering, the slap of skin against skin echoing through the hushed room like a vulgar metronome. "We are giving them a show."

"They certainly can't say they didn't get their money's worth," I gasped out, my voice trembling with the force of his thrusts. I was vaguely aware that this night was costing Nayeon a fortune in champagne and booth fees, but the performance she was giving was worth infinitely more.

My fingers were clawing at the sofa cushion, knuckles white, as I tried to anchor myself against the onslaught of pleasure. He was pounding into me with a relentless, calculated rhythm, each stroke hitting that spot inside me that made stars burst behind my eyelids. I felt like a ragdoll in his hands, completely at his mercy, and I loved every second of it.

"She's beautiful like this," Tzuyu murmured, her voice sounding strained. She shifted closer, her eyes never leaving my face. "You've broken her, haven't you? Shattered that bubbly exterior and left her raw."

"She isn't broken," he corrected, his voice a smooth, dark velvet that cut through the ragged sounds of my breathing. He slowed his pace just fractionally, grinding his hips against my bottom in a way that made me see stars, emphasising his point. "She's free. Aren't you, Sana?"

I couldn't form words, only a high, broken whimper that spilt from my lips. He was right. In this moment, stripped of all pretence and social niceties, bent over before my closest friends with my son buried deep inside me, I had never felt more liberated. The bubbly, energetic mask I wore for the world was gone, leaving only the raw, burning need that defined us.

"Look at me," Nayeon breathed, her hand trembling as she reached out. She didn't touch me—she wouldn't dare, not without his permission—but her fingers hovered just inches from my flushed cheek, her eyes wide and glassy, reflecting the chaotic mix of shock and lust swirling in the room. "I've known you for years, Sana. I've seen you dance, I've seen you drink, I've seen you with men. But I've never seen you look like this."

"Like what?" I managed to choke out, my voice barely recognisable over the wet slap of flesh and the ragged gasps tearing from my throat. The question was a desperate attempt to maintain some shred of dignity, but it came out sounding wrecked and needy.

"Like you've finally found something real," Nayeon whispered, her eyes tracing the contours of my face as if memorising a map of ecstasy. "Like you're not pretending anymore."

It was the truth, and it cut deeper than his thrusts. I wasn't pretending to be the cool, experienced older woman nor the dutiful mother. I was just a vessel for pleasure, caught in a storm of my own making. My body was singing, every nerve ending firing in a symphony of sensation that threatened to short-circuit my brain. I could feel the sweat trickling down my spine, cooling in the air conditioning before being instantly reheated by the friction of his body against mine.

"Baby, I'm so close," I moaned. "Don't stop."

"I have no intention of stopping," he replied, his voice steady despite the ragged rhythm of his breathing. "I want to feel you fall apart around me."

His hand released my hair and snaked around my waist, finding my clit with unerring precision. The calloused pad of his thumb pressed down, circling the tight bundle of nerves in time with his thrusts. It was the final straw. The coil inside me snapped, releasing a tidal wave of pleasure that obliterated everything else.

The world didn't just shatter; it disintegrated. A white-hot supernova exploded behind my eyelids, wiping out the expensive apartment, the city lights below, and the three women watching my every move. My body seized, arching into a rigid bow as the orgasm ripped through me with the force of a tsunami. I screamed, a raw, guttural sound that was swallowed by the plush cushions of Nayeon’s sofa, my inner muscles clamping down around him like a vice, desperate to keep him inside, to milk him for everything he was worth.

"God, yes!" I sobbed, the words tumbling out incoherently as wave after wave of pleasure rolled over me, drowning me in ecstasy. My fingers tore at the fabric beneath me, my knuckles white, my entire existence narrowing down to the thick, hard length pulsing inside me and my thumb still rubbing ruthless circles against my oversensitive clit.

He didn't let up. He rode me through the storm, his thrusts becoming shallower, harder, driving into my convulsing body with a relentless precision that prolonged the agony until I was a trembling, gasping wreck. He was owning it, owning every second of my fall from grace, and the sheer power of it was intoxicating.

"Get on your back," he told me. "I don't want you to exhaust yourself on the sofa."

The command in his voice left no room for argument, though I doubt I could have formed a coherent sentence even if I’d tried. My legs were trembling violently, the aftershocks of my orgasm still rippling through my nervous system like electric shocks. He withdrew from me slowly, the sudden emptiness aching and profound, making me gasp at the loss.

He gripped my waist, steadying me as I slid down from the edge of the sofa onto the plush white rug. The fibres were soft against my overheated skin, a welcome contrast to the cool air of the room. I looked up at him, sprawled out on the floor like a sacrificial offering, my chest heaving and my skin slick with sweat. I felt utterly wrecked, exposed in the most primal way, yet as I looked into those tranquil blue eyes, I saw a reflection of myself that wasn't shameful but revered.

I manoeuvred myself onto my back, the movement slow and heavy, my limbs feeling like they were made of lead and honey. The rug beneath me was soft, caressing my shoulder blades, but it was nothing compared to the scorching heat of his gaze raking over my exposed body. I spread my legs instinctively, an open invitation, my chest heaving as I tried to catch my breath. The city lights cast long, dancing shadows across his form as he loomed over me, a dark god against the glittering backdrop of Tokyo.

The audience on the sofa had gone eerily quiet, save for the ragged, synchronized sound of their breathing. They were leaning forward, a three-headed hydra of voyeuristic hunger, their eyes glued to the space between my thighs.

"He's... he's not done?" Nayeon whispered, her voice cracking slightly. She sounded almost frightened, but there was a feverish glint in her eyes that betrayed her arousal. "After that?"

"He has not come yet, Nayeon," I managed to pant out, a breathless, euphoric laugh bubbling in my chest as I looked up at the ceiling, the city lights spinning lazily above me."

My son ignored our words . His attention was entirely consumed by me, a heavy, palpable weight that pinned me to the floor more effectively than his body ever could. He settled between my spread thighs, the heat of his skin radiating against mine, searing me. He paused for a moment, his hands resting on either side of my head, framing my face, and simply looked at me. His blue eyes were dark, the pupils blown so wide they almost eclipsed the iris, swimming with a tumultuous mix of love, lust, and a fierce, terrifying pride.

"You look like a goddess," he murmured, the words spoken so softly they were almost lost in the quiet of the room. "My goddess."

Before I could respond—before I could preen or tease or even draw breath—he shifted his weight and sank into me. The return of his thick length inside my sensitive, convulsing channel forced a sharp cry from my lips. It was a tight fit, a stretch that burned so sweetly it bordered on pain, but I welcomed it. I needed it. I needed to be filled by him, to be completed by him, in front of the whole world if necessary.

"Is it too much, Mum?" he asked, his voice strained but still retaining that veneer of calm that he wore like armour. He held himself still, buried to the hilt, giving me a moment to adjust to the overwhelming intrusion.

"Never," I gasped, wrapping my legs around his waist, digging my heels into his lower back to pull him impossibly closer. The movement caused him to slide against that sensitive spot inside me, making us both groan. "I want all of you. Every inch."

He didn't need any further encouragement. He began to move again, a slow, deliberate grind that allowed me to feel every ridge, every vein of him. This position was different; it was more intimate, more exposing. I was completely splayed out, unable to hide a single reaction, and he was looming over me like a conqueror claiming his territory.

"A slow rhythm suits this," he murmured, more to himself than to the room. He lowered his weight onto his elbows, caging me in, bringing our faces so close that our noses brushed. The frantic, pounding pace from before was gone, replaced by a deep, rolling grind that felt impossibly intimate. In this position, I couldn't hide from him. I couldn't lose myself in the sensation; I had to feel every inch, every drag of his skin against mine, every deliberate rotation of his hips.

"Kiss me, baby", I breathed against his lips, my eyes fluttering shut. The need for connection, for that final anchor amidst the storm of sensation, was overwhelming. "Please."

He obliged me without hesitation, sealing his mouth over mine in a kiss that was slow, deep, and devastatingly tender. It was a stark contrast to the ruthless way he was fucking me, a duality that made my head spin. His tongue swept into my mouth, dominating the rhythm there just as he was dominating the rhythm between my thighs, tasting me, claiming me. The taste of him—mingled with the lingering scent of gin and perfume from the air—was intoxicating.

The intimacy of the position, the slow, deliberate drag of his hips, and the gentle sweep of his tongue were unravelling me in an entirely different way than before. This wasn't just about physical release; it was an emotional dismantling. I felt exposed, not just physically to my friends but spiritually to him. I was pouring my soul into his kiss, letting him see the raw, unfiltered need that drove me.

The kiss broke, leaving me gasping for air, my lips tingling and swollen. He didn't pull away far, just enough to rest his forehead against mine, his breath mingling with my own ragged exhalations. The slow, torturous rhythm of his hips never faltered, a relentless, deep grind that was stoking the fires of my arousal all over again, building something different this time—heavier, deeper.

He shifted slightly, rising up on his hands to change the angle, and the new depth made me cry out, my nails digging into the shoulders of his crisp white shirt. He hadn't even bothered to undress fully, and the sight of him—the buttons straining, the fabric dishevelled while he ruined me—only added to the illicit thrill.

"Look at them," he whispered against my lips, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through my chest. He didn't break eye contact, forcing me to hold his gaze while he spoke. "Look at your friends. They are mesmerised."

I managed to tear my gaze away from his face, turning my head slightly towards the sofa. My neck felt weak, my body boneless, but the sight that greeted me sent a fresh jolt of electricity through my veins.

My friends were statues of frozen desire, their drinks forgotten in their hands. Mina was perched on the very edge of the cushion, her dark eyes wide and unblinking, fixed intently on the joining of our bodies. Nayeon had her hand pressed over her mouth, her cheeks burning a bright, feverish crimson, her bunny-like eyes shimmering with a mixture of shock and unmistakable arousal. Even Tzuyu, the cool and collected ice queen, looked unravelled. She was leaning forward, her elbows on her knees, her gaze locked onto my face with a burning intensity that felt like a physical touch.

"Let's give them a proper finale," he proposed. 

The word finale hung in the air like a promise, dark and sweet as molasses. He didn't give me time to wonder what he meant. With a strength that never ceased to thrill me, he gripped my waist and rolled us. The world spun—white ceiling, city lights, the shocked faces of my friends—until I was straddling him, my knees sinking into the plush rug on either side of his hips.

But he didn't let me settle astride him facing him. His hands guided my hips, turning me like a doll until my back was to his chest. It wasn't until he planted his feet flat on the floor and urged me to lean forward that I realised what he intended. This wasn't just cowgirl; this was reverse cowgirl, a position designed entirely for the benefit of our audience.

"Lean back," he commanded, his voice a low thrum against my spine. "I want them to see everything."

I obeyed instantly, bracing my hands on his thighs for leverage and arching my back until my heavy breasts were thrust towards the sofa. The angle shifted him inside me, hitting a spot so deep and sensitive that I saw stars. I was spread wide, completely on display, my slick, stretched centre inches away from the hungry gazes of Mina, Nayeon, and Tzuyu.

"God, look at that," Nayeon breathed, her voice barely a whisper. She had abandoned her drink entirely, her knuckles white as she gripped her knees. "You can see everything. I can see... I can see him inside you."

The obscenity of her words sent a jolt of pure electricity through me. I looked down at myself, at the place where we were joined, and saw what she meant. My folds were glossy and swollen, wrapped tightly around his thick shaft as it pistoned in and out of me. It was pornographic, intimate, and utterly mesmerising.

His hands gripped my hips, guiding me to move, and I didn't need to be told twice. I lifted myself, the friction of his withdrawal leaving me gasping, before slamming back down, taking him to the hilt. I set a brutal pace, riding him with a desperate, rhythmic need that was fuelled as much by the exhibitionism as by the physical pleasure. Every time I descended, the wet slap of our bodies echoed through the silent room, a vulgar metronome to the ragged breathing of our audience.

"You're taking it so deep, Sana," Mina murmured, her voice thick with arousal. She leaned in closer, her dark eyes fixed on the sight of my son's cock disappearing inside me. "Look at how you stretch around him. It's... it's art."

Art. The word floated through my hazy mind. It felt primal, beyond art, but the intensity in Mina’s gaze suggested she saw a beauty in this raw, filthy act. I looked at them, really looked at them. Nayeon was squirming, pressing her thighs together as if trying to alleviate an ache. Tzuyu’s eyes were blazing, tracking the movement of my breasts as they bounced with every thrust.

The rhythm I set was punishing, a frenetic bounce that had my thighs burning and my breath coming in ragged, sobbing gasps. I was chasing something, a high that hovered just out of reach, a precipice I was desperate to throw myself off. The friction of him dragging against my inner walls was exquisite, a tight, hot coil winding tighter and tighter in my belly, but it wasn't enough. I needed more.

"Touch me," I cried out, throwing my head back against his shoulder, my damp hair sticking to my flushed skin. "Please, baby. Make me explode."

He didn't hesitate. One hand left my hip, sliding down through the slick sweat coating my stomach until his fingers found my clit. He didn't tease this time; he rubbed tight, fierce circles over the swollen nub, matching the relentless rhythm of my hips. The dual stimulation was electric, a shockwave that had my vision whitening out.

The pressure built with terrifying speed, a roaring tidal wave that obliterated every thought in my head. His fingers were a blur on my clit, ruthlessly exploiting that sensitive bundle of nerves while his cock hammered into that secret place inside me. I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only feel the terrifyingly tight coil of pleasure winding in my abdomen, ready to snap.

"Don't hold back," he growled in my ear, his voice a dark command that cut through the haze. "Let them see what you really are."

It was too much. The visual of my friends watching, the feeling of being so incredibly full, the relentless circling of his thumb—it all converged into a single, blinding point of no return. I threw my head back, a silent scream tearing from my throat as my body seized up.

My vision shattered into a million fragments of white light. The world as I knew it ceased to exist; there was only the blinding, electric pulse originating from my core and radiating out to my extremities with the force of a supernova.

I wasn't just climaxing; I was detonating.

A guttural, animalistic cry tore from my throat, raw and unfiltered, as the dam broke. The coil inside me snapped with a violence that left me breathless, and then came the flood. It wasn't a metaphor. My body convulsed violently, arching away from his chest, and a sudden, sharp jet of fluid erupted from me, spraying out in a hot, clear arc towards the sofa.

I was vaguely aware of the shocked gasps that erupted from the sofa, followed immediately by the wet, splattering sound of my release hitting the coffee table and, judging by the startled cries from Mina and Nayeon, the front of their dresses. But I couldn't stop. The sensation was blinding, a torrential release that ripped a scream from my lungs and left me shaking uncontrollably.

The fluid sprayed in powerful, rhythmic pulses, drenching the expensive upholstery and my friends in a clear, glistening testament to the pleasure he was wringing from them. I watched through blurred, tear-filled eyes as Nayeon recoiled slightly, her hands flying up to shield her face, though her eyes remained wide and fixed on the source. Mina, ever the bold one, simply sat there, mouth agape, letting the liquid rain down on her chest, mesmerised by the sheer force of it.

But he didn't let me stop. He didn't give me a moment to come down from the high. Even as my body twitched and spasmed in the aftershocks, he kept his fingers working my clit, the stimulation almost agonising against my oversensitive flesh. His other hand held my hips down, impaling me on his length, refusing to let me retreat from the intensity.

He was relentless, a machine of singular purpose. Even as I convulsed, the aftershocks of that cataclysmic release still rippling through my limbs, he didn't pause. His hips continued to snap upwards, driving into that overly sensitive, spongy spot with an accuracy that was almost terrifying. The wet, slapping sound was louder now, obscene and squelching, fuelled by the slick warmth of my own climax.

"No... please, it's too much," I sobbed, my head lolling back against his shoulder, my body heavy and boneless in his grip. I felt like a ragdoll, entirely at his mercy, unable to do anything but take the punishing rhythm he dictated. The overstimulation was a sharp, biting pain that bled dangerously close to pleasure, blurring the lines until I didn't know where one ended and the other began.

"You can take it," he murmured against my ear, his voice a low, dark rumble that vibrated through my chest. "You're not done, Mum. Not until I have cum."

His words were a trigger. The moment he uttered that command, I felt the impossible happen. My body, which I thought had been drained dry, seemed to draw from a hidden, endless reservoir of arousal. The sensation shifted from agonising overstimulation to a rapidly climbing crescendo of pure, unadulterated ecstasy.

"I can't... I'm going to... again!" I screamed, my voice cracking as the coil tightened once more, impossibly fast.

He didn't let up. He jackhammered into me, his hips snapping upwards with a speed and force that stole the breath from my lungs, while his fingers tortured my clit with ruthless precision. The friction was indescribable, a blazing heat that seared me from the inside out.

The second peak didn't just arrive; it exploded with the force of a bomb. My entire body went rigid as a board, a silent scream tearing from my throat as the pressure inside me imploded. My inner muscles clamped down around him like a vice, desperate to milk him and to pull him deeper as the universe fractured apart.

Then, the dam broke again.

It was even more violent than the first. A torrent of clear, hot fluid erupted from me, a gushing wave that surged out with unstoppable force. I heard the liquid spray through the air, a sharp, hissing sound that was immediately followed by the wet slap of it hitting the women on the sofa.

The sound was wet and heavy, a distinct splattering as the arc of fluid sprayed across the short distance to the sofa. I watched, dazed and convulsing, as Nayeon let out a high-pitched squeal, throwing her hands up in a futile attempt to shield herself, but the sheer force of it drenched her front, soaking her blouse and leaving her dripping. Tzuyu, closest to the spray, didn't flinch away; she merely squeezed her eyes shut as the liquid hit her chest and face, her mouth open slightly as if catching rain, her composure shattering entirely.

I was a broken record, screaming as my body expelled wave after wave of liquid, a humiliating, liberating deluge that ruined Nayeon's pristine rug and soaked my friends to the bone. I was painting them with pleasure, marking them as witnesses to my absolute debasement.

"God! Sana!" Mina shrieked, though her voice was thick with awe rather than anger. She was wiping her face, but her eyes were glued to the spasming juncture of my thighs, watching the liquid gush out of me around his cock. "You're... you're soaking us!"

"Look at the mess you've made, Sana," Tzuyu breathed out, her voice ragged and utterly devoid of its usual composure. She wiped a glistening trail of fluid from her cheek with the back of her hand, her dark eyes wide and fixed on me with a terrifying intensity. "You've absolutely ruined us."

I couldn't answer. I couldn't do anything but tremble and gasp, my lungs burning for air that wouldn't seem to come. My body was still twitching in the throes of the most violent orgasm of my life, my inner muscles still fluttering weakly around the thick hardness buried deep inside me.

"Turn around," he whispered. "I need to see your face while I finish."

I didn't think I had the strength to move. My limbs felt like lead, heavy and uncooperative, but the dark authority in his voice cut through the fog of my exhaustion. With a soft, whimpering sob, I managed to lift myself off him, the sudden loss of his thick length leaving me feeling achingly empty and gaping.

I turned, my movements clumsy and graceless, swinging my leg over his hips to face him. The rug beneath me was soaked, a dark, damp testament to what had just transpired, but I didn't care. All I cared about was the boy looking up at me with eyes that burnt like blue fire. He was still fully dressed, his shirt sticking to his chest in patches of sweat and his trousers open just enough to free himself. The contrast between his composed attire and my utter ruin made my heart hammer against my ribs.

"Come here," he murmured, reaching out to grip my waist. He pulled me down, positioning me so that I was straddling his thighs, his angry, flushed erection standing proud between us, slick with my essence.

I didn't need to be told twice. I braced my hands on his chest, feeling the frantic thud of his heart beneath the damp cotton, and lifted my hips. I sank onto him, the stretch familiar and welcome, taking him to the hilt in one fluid motion. We both groaned at the contact, a sound of relief and desperate need.

He began to pound into me, his hips snapping with a desperate, relentless rhythm that signalled his own end was near. He abandoned the slow, torturous grind for a frantic, seeking pace, driving into me with a force that rattled my teeth. The wet, squelching sounds of our coupling were obscene, echoing in the sudden, heavy silence of the room, louder than the distant hum of the city outside.

"You've been amazing, Mum," he gritted out, his voice barely recognisable, rough with strain and raw emotion. "Absolutely perfect."

"So have you, my love," I sobbed, overwhelmed by the sheer ferocity of his passion. I collapsed against his chest, burying my face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of sweat and sex that clung to him like a second skin. I held on for dear life as he used my body, chasing his release with the single-minded focus that defined him.

The world narrowed down to the friction of our bodies and the ragged sound of our breathing. He was moving with a desperate, jagged rhythm, his hips snapping upwards to meet my downward rolls, driving himself impossibly deep. I could feel the swell of him inside me, the thick veins pulsing against my sensitive walls, signalling that he was hovering right on the edge.

"Look at me," he demanded, his voice cracking slightly on the words. He gripped my chin, forcing my head up so I had to meet those burning blue eyes. "I want to see you when I cum."

I locked eyes with him, my vision swimming with tears of overstimulation and overwhelming love. His face was flushed, a sheen of sweat coating his forehead, matting his brown hair to his skin. He looked beautiful, feral, and entirely mine. I clenched my inner muscles around him, rippling my walls along his length, trying to pull him over the precipice with me.

"Mum, I'm cumming," he whined, his voice cracking and losing all of that cool tranquillity he wore like armour. It was the sound of the boy, not the man, breaking through in the final moments of ecstasy.

"Let go, baby," I whispered, cupping his flushed face in my hands, my thumbs stroking his damp cheeks. "Fill me up. It’s yours."

With a raw, guttural groan that seemed to be wrenched from the very depths of his soul, he obeyed. His grip on my waist became bruisingly tight, anchoring me down as he buried himself to the hilt one last time. I felt him pulse inside me, a thick, hot throb that signalled the start of his release. His whole body stiffened, his back arching off the floor, and then he was flooding me with

The sensation was intense and intimate—a deep, scorching heat that spread through my core, claiming me in a way that went far beyond the physical. Rope after rope of his cum painted my insides, marking me, filling me until I could feel the slick warmth threatening to overflow. He cried out my name, a broken, desperate sound that was the sweetest thing I had ever heard, his eyes squeezing shut as the ecstasy overwhelmed him.

"Yes, baby, that's it," I crooned, pressing soft kisses against his damp forehead as he shuddered through the final throes of his release. "Every last drop. It’s all yours."

I held him close, my fingers combing through his sweat-slicked hair, offering comfort as the waves of pleasure subsided into a heavy, satiated languor. Inside me, I could feel the warmth of his essence, a glowing reminder of what we had just shared, a tangible claim that made me feel possessed most wonderfully. His grip on my waist slowly loosened, his fingers trailing idly over my spine as his breathing slowed, the frantic thumping of his heart against my chest gradually returning to its steady, tranquil rhythm.

For a long moment, the only sounds in the room were our ragged breaths mingling together and the distant, rhythmic hum of the city air conditioning. It was a bubble of peace amidst the chaos of the night, a quiet afterglow that felt sacred.

The bubble of peace, however, was destined to burst. As the fog of ecstasy began to lift, replaced by the cool clarity of the apartment's air conditioning, the reality of our surroundings crashed back in. The scent of sex and expensive gin was heavy in the air, mingling with the sharp, metallic tang of utter debauchery.

I slowly lifted my head from the crook of his neck, my muscles protesting the movement. I felt wrecked in the best possible way, a delicious ache radiating from my centre out to my fingertips. But as I shifted, I became acutely aware of the silence from the sofa—a silence that wasn't peaceful, but stunned.

I turned my head, my damp hair sticking to my cheek, and looked at my friends.

My gaze travelled over the scene, and I couldn't suppress the breathless, slightly hysterical giggle that bubbled up in my chest. It was a picture of utter devastation. The pristine white aesthetic of Nayeon’s apartment had been thoroughly violated.

Nayeon sat frozen, her expensive designer blouse soaked through, turning the sheer fabric transparent where it clung to her skin. Her blonde hair was plastered to her forehead in damp tendrils, and her mascara was beginning to run, giving her a smudgy, raccoon-like appearance. Mina was in a similar state, wiping her hand across her face in a daze, looking like a cat that had been caught in a downpour. And Tzuyu... Even Tzuyu, the unshakeable ice queen, looked thoroughly unravelled. Her cheek glistened with the evidence of my climax, and her dress was spotted with damp patches; her composure drowned in a literal wave of fluid.

"Well," I gasped out, my voice hoarse and wrecked, sounding miles away from the bubbly tone I usually adopted. "I guess we really made a splash, didn't we?"

The silence stretched, taut and trembling, before Nayeon let out a high-pitched, disbelieving laugh. She looked down at her drenched blouse, then up at me, her eyes wide and sparkling with a mix of shock and sheer, unadulterated awe.

"A splash?" she choked out, wiping a stray droplet from her chin. "Sana, you didn't just make a splash. You created a monsoon season in my living room. I’m going to need a squeegee to get this out of the carpet."

Mina shook her head slowly, droplets of fluid flying from her dark hair like a wet dog shaking itself dry. She ran a hand through her damp tresses, her feline eyes glued to where I still sat atop my son, our bodies still joined in the aftermath. "I've seen a lot of things in this city," she murmured, her voice husky and filled with genuine respect. "I've seen orgies that would make a porn star blush. But I have never... never seen anything like that. That was... biblical."

Tzuyu reached for the box of tissues on the coffee table, pulling out a handful and dabbing ineffectually at the sticky trail on her cheek. She didn't look angry, though; if anything, the cool, analytical mask had slipped entirely to reveal a woman deeply, thoroughly shaken.

"Biblical" is one word for it," Tzuyu said, her voice lacking its usual smooth polish, sounding slightly breathless. She tossed the used tissues onto the growing pile of debris on her pristine table. "I think the technical term is 'female ejaculation', but 'biblical' seems more appropriate given the volume." She paused, her dark eyes fixing on my son with an expression that was half-fear, half-worship. "You really broke the dam, didn't you?"

I felt a surge of possessive pride warm my chest, even as my cheeks burned with the remnants of shame. I leaned back, allowing my son to support my weight, feeling the sticky, slick heat between us where our bodies were still connected. The reality of what we’d done—the sheer, unadulterated depravity of it—was settling in, but instead of regret, I felt a strange, light-headed euphoria.

I glanced down at him, my chest swelling with an affection that was so fierce it almost hurt. He was recovering quickly, that tranquil mask slipping back into place over the boy who had just screamed my name in ecstasy. He looked up at me, his blue eyes clear and focused, though a faint blush still dusted his cheekbones—a charming reminder of his youth.

He gently helped me dismount, the separation leaving me achingly empty and a thick, warm trickle of his release escaping me, sliding down my inner thigh in sticky rivulets. The sensation was lewd, a clear reminder of his claim, and I made no move to hide it. Let them look. Let them see exactly who I belonged to.

As I scrambled to my feet, my knees wobbling like a newborn fawn, I felt the full extent of the mess I had made. The plush white rug was a disaster zone, a dark, sodden map of our debauchery. I looked back at my friends, expecting to see disgust, or at the very least, a plea to leave.

Instead, I was met with a tableau of dazed fascination. Nayeon was still dabbing at her wet blouse with a cocktail napkin, though the effort was entirely futile; the sheer fabric was plastered to her skin, leaving nothing to the imagination. Yet, she wasn’t looking at her clothes with annoyance. Her eyes were fixed on the slick warmth trickling down my inner thigh, her expression a mix of scientific curiosity and raw arousal.

"I think I need a shower," Tzuyu announced, breaking the heavy silence. She stood up slowly, her designer dress sticking to her in awkward places, but she carried herself with a regal sort of calmness. She looked down at us—my son, who was calmly tucking himself back into his trousers with that maddeningly serene demeanour, and me, standing naked and shivering in the centre of a vast wet patch. A slow, incredulous smile spread across her face. "That was... without a doubt, the most impressive thing I have ever witnessed. And I have seen the pyramids."

"I second the shower," Mina purred, rising with a feline grace that was slightly compromised by the squelch of her heels against the wet rug. She stepped closer to us, invading my personal space to press a soft, lingering kiss to my cheek. She smelled like gin, expensive perfume, and me. "You really are a lucky woman, Sana. To find a man who can do that... let alone one who looks like him." She turned her dark gaze to him, offering him a sultry wink. "You're welcome back anytime, knight. Just... maybe bring a tarp next time."

My son offered Mina a small, polite nod, accepting her teasing with that same unflappable calm he displayed when I handed him his maths homework. "I'll keep that in mind," he replied smoothly, reaching out to adjust the strap of my bra, which had slipped down my shoulder during the festivities. "Though, I suspect Sana prefers spontaneity over plastic sheets."

"Spontaneity is good," Nayeon groaned, finally abandoning her futile attempts to salvage her blouse. She peeled the wet fabric away from her skin with a sticky thwack, looking down at the damage with a mixture of horror and amusement. "But next time, let's be spontaneous in the shower. Or a tiled room. Somewhere with drainage."

"I'll call the cleaners," Tzuyu said, already pulling her phone from her clutch, her thumb flying across the screen. She paused, looking over the rim of the device at us, a genuine, appreciative smile curving her lips. "And don't worry about the rug, Sana. It was worth the price of admission. That was... a masterpiece."

"You'd better order some food as well," Nayeon chimed in, dropping the sodden cocktail napkin onto the table with a wet splat. She stretched her arms above her head, her joints popping audibly, a testament to the tension she had held while watching us. "I’m starving. Watching a performance like that works up an appetite."

My son, who had just finished buttoning his trousers and was now smoothing down the front of his shirt, looked at Nayeon with a polite tilt of his head. "What is on tonight's menu?" 

"Something greasy and entirely inappropriate for this time of night," Nayeon declared, rubbing her stomach which gave a surprisingly loud, unladylike growl. "Pizza. The kind with extra cheese and pepperoni that clogs your arteries just by looking at it. We need comfort food after that... athletic display."

"Pizza sounds adequate", my son agreed, his tone suggesting he was discussing a diplomatic treaty rather than a takeaway order. He turned to me, his eyes scanning my body with a critical, assessing gaze. "But first, Mum, you need to clean up. You’re trembling."

I looked down at myself and realised he was right. My skin was prickling with gooseflesh, the rapid cooling of my sweat and the drying fluids making me shiver violently. I felt sticky, used, and utterly magnificent. I reached out for him, needing his grounding presence, and he immediately stepped into my embrace, wrapping his arms around my naked form and sharing his body heat.

He rubbed his hands up and down my arms, generating friction to warm my chilled skin, before pressing a kiss to my forehead that was filled with a tender, protective affection. It was a stark contrast to the raw, animalistic dominance he had displayed just moments ago, but that duality was what made him so intoxicating.

"I'll take care of you," he murmured against my skin, his breath warm and steadying. "Let's get you sorted."

He didn't seem to care that I was naked and sticky and that my friends were watching our every move with bated breath. He simply scooped me up into his arms, bridal style, with an effortless strength that made my head spin. I wrapped my arms around his neck, burying my face in the crook of his shoulder, inhaling the scent of him—sweat, sex, and that clean, comforting smell that was uniquely his.

"A gentleman to the last," Mina purred, her voice thick with admiration as she watched him carry me towards the hallway. "Don't be too long, you two. The pizza won't wait forever." 

The bathroom was a sanctuary of white marble and polished chrome, a stark contrast to the sticky, chaotic wreckage of the living room. As he set me down on the cool tiled floor, the silence enveloped us, heavy and soothing. He didn't immediately turn on the water; instead, he stood behind me, his hands resting gently on my shoulders, his warmth seeping into my chilled skin.

"You were incredible," he murmured, his voice low and reverent, echoing off the tiled walls. "I've never seen you let go like that."

I leant back into him, closing my eyes as I felt the tension drain from my muscles. "I couldn't help it," I admitted softly, a shy smile tugging at my lips despite myself. "You made me feel... things I didn't know I could feel. And knowing they were watching..." I shivered again, but this time it wasn't from the cold. "It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once."

He turned me around gently, his expression softening as he cupped my face in his hands. His blue eyes, usually so tranquil and guarded, were swimming with a depth of emotion that made my breath hitch. He looked at me not as the sultry woman who had just performed for an audience but with the tender, protective gaze of the boy I had raised.

"They were terrified of you," he corrected, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "Mina and Nayeon... they've seen everything, or so they thought. But tonight, you showed them a power they couldn't comprehend." He brushed a stray damp hair away from my forehead, his touch feather-light. "And Tzuyu... she respects strength above all else. You earned her worship tonight."

I felt a flush rise to my cheeks, a strange mixture of maternal pride and feminine satisfaction warming me from the inside out. "I just wanted to make you proud," I whispered, reaching up to cover his hand with mine.

"You always make me proud, Sana," he replied, his voice steady and sincere, stripping away the last of my lingering insecurities with a single sentence. "But tonight... tonight you were the protagonist of a story they won't ever forget."

With that, he reached past me, his arm brushing against my shoulder, and turned the chrome dial of the shower. The water hissed to life, cascading from the wide rainfall head in a steamy deluge that instantly began to fog up the glass enclosure. He checked the temperature with his hand, ensuring it was perfect before guiding me inside.

The feeling of the hot water hitting my skin was transcendent. It washed away the sticky, cooling evidence of our exertions, the fluids and sweat swirling down the drain at my feet. I stood under the spray, letting it soak my hair and run over my face, feeling myself slowly return to my body after being so thoroughly shattered apart.

He joined me a moment later, the small space instantly feeling warmer and more intimate with his presence. But unlike the frantic, needy coupling of moments ago, his touch now was purely utilitarian and tender. He reached for the expensive, jasmine-scented body wash that sat in a caddy on the wall and poured a generous amount into his palm.

"Tilt your head back," he instructed softly.

I obeyed, closing my eyes as he began to lather the soap into my hair. His fingers were strong, massaging my scalp with a slow, rhythmic pressure that made me hum with contentment. It felt so domestic, so strangely normal after the depravity we had just indulged in, that it brought a lump to my throat. This was the boy who needed help with his homework, now washing my hair with the care of a lover who had worshipped every inch of me.

He took his time, working his way through the tangles with a patience that belied his youth. The scent of jasmine filled the steamy air, replacing the musk of sex and gin that had clung to us like a second skin. I stood there, eyes closed, surrendering to the sensation of his fingers moving deftly against my scalp. It was a stark, beautiful contrast to the way his hands had gripped my hips only minutes ago—bruising, demanding, and possessive. Now, they were gentle, reverent almost, treating me as though I were something fragile and precious that needed to be pieced back together.

"Rinse", he murmured, guiding me gently under the spray.

I ducked my head, letting the hot water wash away the thick lather, the suds cascading down my back and over my curves before swirling into the drain. When I straightened up, wiping the water from my eyes, he was waiting with a face cloth soaked in more soapy lather.

He moved with a deliberate, unhurried grace, starting at my shoulders and working his way down. The cloth was warm and soft, gliding over my skin in soothing circles. He washed away the sweat and the lingering scent of the club, his touch attentive and thorough. There was nothing sexual in the way his hands roamed over my body now; it was purely an act of devotion, a silent acknowledgement that he had taken me to the brink of destruction and was now carefully putting me back together.

I watched his face through the steam, the droplets of water clinging to his long eyelashes. He looked so focused, his brow furrowed slightly in concentration, as if cleaning me were the most important task in the world. It made my heart ache with a fierce, overwhelming love.

"You're staring," he murmured, not looking up from where he was gently scrubbing my arm.

"Can you blame me?" I replied softly, my voice echoing slightly in the tiled enclosure. "I'm just admiring the view. You're incredibly handsome, you know that? And to think, just a little while ago you were making a mess of me with those very hands."

He paused, his hand resting on my hip, and finally looked up. A small, knowing smile curved his lips, the water running in rivulets down his handsome face. "I think we established that the mess was mostly of your making, Mum. Though I suppose I acted as the catalyst."

He moved lower, his hand guiding the cloth over my stomach, washing away the sticky residue that had dried there. The touch was soothing and hypnotic, making my eyelids grow heavy. The heat of the shower, combined with his gentle ministrations, was lulling me into a state of blissful lethargy.

"And a very effective catalyst you were," I sighed, leaning into his touch as he ran the cloth down my thigh, careful around the sensitive skin. "I feel like I've been wrung out and put back together again. I don't think I've ever come that hard in my life."

He knelt before me, the water streaming over his shoulders and dampening his shirt, which he was still wearing, the wet fabric clinging to his torso. It was a surreal image—my fully dressed son, on his knees in a shower, bathing me with the devotion of a penitent monk. He washed my legs with meticulous care, lifting one foot and then the other to clean the soles, his grip firm and sure.

"You let go of all your inhibitions," he opined, looking up at me from beneath his wet lashes. "It was beautiful to watch. The way you surrendered to the pleasure... it was honest. Raw." He pressed a kiss to my knee, a chaste, tender gesture that contrasted sharply with the debauchery we had left outside. "The girls were right to be awestruck. You were magnetic."

I felt a blush rising, not from shame, but from the sheer intensity of his gaze. Even here, under the guise of caretaking, he was stripping me bare. "You make me feel safe enough to be raw," I whispered, running my fingers through his soaking wet hair, pushing the strands back from his forehead. "I know you'll catch me when I fall."

He stood up, water cascading down his clothed form, and squeezed a little more body wash into his hand. "Then I'll always be here to catch you." He reached around me, his hands gliding over my back, washing away the tension that had settled there. His fingers found the dip of my spine and traced it down, a soothing, repetitive motion that made me want to purr like a contented cat.

"Though", he continued, his tone shifting slightly, a hint of that dry, analytical wit creeping back in, "I suspect Tzuyu is currently calculating the fluid dynamics of what just occurred. She looked like she'd witnessed a miracle or a natural disaster."

"I think she witnessed both," I laughed, the sound echoing brightly off the wet tiles, finally feeling the last of the heavy tension in my chest dissolve. "A natural disaster of the very best kind. Did you see her face? I think I actually broke Tzuyu. The unshakeable ice queen, covered in... well, me."

"It was a look of scientific wonder," he agreed, his hands moving to wash my stomach, the cloth gentle against my sensitised skin. "Mina, on the other hand, looked like she wanted to join in. She has a voracious appetite, that one; I felt her eyes on me the entire time."

"Jealous?" I teased, arching a brow at him, though a familiar sharp pang of possessiveness pricked at me nonetheless.

"Perhaps a little," he admitted with a refreshing honesty that made my heart skip a beat. He didn't avert his gaze; he held mine steadily, the water plastering his brown hair to his forehead. "But not because I wanted her. It was more... overwhelming. Like standing too close to a fire. But you..." He stepped closer, the wet fabric of his shirt pressing against my bare skin, his hands settling on my waist. "You are the one who burns me, Mum. In a way that no one else ever could."

The possessive flutter in my chest settled into a warm, glowing hum. I reached up, undoing the buttons of his sodden shirt with clumsy fingers. The fabric was heavy and clinging, and I wanted to feel his skin against mine, not the barrier of wet cotton.

"Let's get this off you," I murmured, pushing the shirt down his shoulders. He obliged, shrugging out of it and letting it fall with a wet slap to the tiled floor. "You're overdressed for a shower, knight."

He offered no resistance, simply standing there with that tranquil patience as I revealed the body beneath the soaked fabric. The sight of him never failed to steal the breath from my lungs. He was lean and sculpted; the definition of his muscles cast in shadow by the dim lighting of the shower, water coursing down the lines of his chest and stomach in rivulets that traced the paths I had mapped with my tongue and hands a hundred times before.

"Better?" he asked, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips as I ran my palms over his shoulders, feeling the warm, slick skin beneath my fingertips.

"Much", I murmured, stepping closer until our bodies were flush, the water cascading over us both. The contrast was thrilling—my soft, yielding curves pressed against his hard, firm planes. "Now you look like part of the ensemble."

I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him under the spray with me, letting the water saturate us both until we were drowning in the warmth. The scent of jasmine swirled around us, heady and sweet, masking the lingering traces of sweat and sex. I rested my forehead against his, the steam wrapping us in a private little world where nothing existed but the rhythm of our breathing and the steady beat of his heart against my chest.

"Do you think they'll ever look at me the same way again?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper over the rushing water. The thought had been niggling at the back of my mind—a tiny crack in the armour of my euphoria. I had just performed the most intimate act imaginable in front of them, crossing a line that could never be uncrossed.

He pulled back slightly, framing my face with his hands, his thumbs stroking my cheekbones. "They will look at you with more respect," he said firmly, his blue eyes piercing through the mist. "Before tonight, to them, you were Sana—the bubbly, beautiful friend who loves a party. Now..." He paused, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to my lips. "Now, you are a force of nature. You showed them a side of yourself that is raw and real. People either fear that or worship it. With them? I suspect it will be the latter."

The thought settled over me, warm and comforting, like the steam filling the small glass cubicle. I believed him. He saw the world with such clarity, such terrifying precision, that his analysis was rarely wrong. If he said they would worship me, then they would. It was a heady power trip, one that rivalled the physical pleasure we had just indulged in.

"Worship", I repeated, testing the weight of the word on my tongue. I looked up at him, a playful glint returning to my eyes as the water continued to cascade over us. "I suppose I could get used to that, though I prefer being worshipped by you in... more practical ways."

He huffed a soft laugh, the sound vibrating against my chest where our bodies were pressed together. "I think I’ve demonstrated my capacity for practical worship quite thoroughly tonight. But", he added, his hands sliding down my back to rest on the curve of my bottom, squeezing gently, "I am always willing to reaffirm my devotion.”

We stayed like that for a while, locked together under the steaming spray, the water running over us in a rhythmic, soothing cascade. The conversation faded into a comfortable, heavy silence, the kind that only exists when two people are entirely in sync. I rested my head against his chest, listening to the steady, rhythmic thrum of his heart, feeling the tension of the night finally bleed out of my muscles, leaving me loose and languid. There was no need for words now; the washing had been an act of communion, a silent promise that despite the storm we had unleashed, we were grounded, we were whole, and we were together.

Eventually, the water began to cool, signalling that it was time to face the world again. He reached out, turning off the tap with a decisive click. The sudden silence was deafening for a moment, broken only by the drip, drip, drip of the residual water from the showerhead.

He stepped out first, grabbing two thick, fluffy white towels from the heated rail. He wrapped one around his waist, covering the lean, powerful lines of his body, before holding the other open for me. I stepped into his embrace, sighing contentedly as he wrapped the towel around me, tucking the corner in securely to keep the warmth trapped against my skin. He dried me with the same gentle attention he had washed me with, patting the water from my hair and smoothing the towel over my shoulders and arms, treating me like something precious he had just polished.

"I think that's sufficient," he murmured, stepping back to admire his handiwork, though his eyes lingered on the patch of skin exposed at my chest where the towel gaped slightly. "Unless you intend to prune?"

I laughed, shaking my head. "Heaven forbid. Wrinkles are the enemy." I quickly rubbed the towel over my legs and tucked it tighter around myself, revelling in the plush softness against my skin. "Robes?"

"Indeed", he opened the linen cupboard, retrieving two thick, white waffle-kimono robes. He helped me into mine first, guiding my arms through the sleeves and tying the sash around my waist with a tenderness that made my heart flutter. Once I was covered, he shrugged into his own, the white fabric contrasting starkly with his tanned skin and damp, dark hair. We looked like spa refugees, albeit ones who had just engaged in the most debauched activity imaginable.

"Ready to face the music?" he asked, offering me his arm with a courtly grace that made me want to giggle.

"As ready as I'll ever be," I replied, looping my arm through his and resting my head briefly against his damp shoulder. "Though I suspect the music has been replaced by the sound of chewing."

We walked back down the hallway, the plush carpet muffling our footsteps. The air outside the bathroom was cooler, carrying the rich, savoury aroma of melting cheese, pepperoni, and baked dough. It was a grounding, homely scent that clashed beautifully with the lingering memory of sex and expensive perfume.

When we emerged into the living room, the scene had transformed. The harsh, erotic tension that had saturated the air earlier had dissipated, replaced by a cosy, chaotic camaraderie. The lights had been dimmed, casting a warm, amber glow over the space, and the massive wet patch on the rug—which had looked like a crime scene minutes ago—had been tactfully covered by a throw blanket.

The girls were clustered around the coffee table, which was now cluttered with open pizza boxes and fresh glasses of soda and water. They were no longer the sleek, predatory observers of earlier; they looked like a group of friends having a sleepover, albeit in designer dresses that were slightly worse for wear.

"Look who's alive!" Nayeon announced through a mouthful of cheese, waving a half-eaten slice in the air. She was sitting cross-legged on the sofa, wearing a fluffy dressing gown she had clearly conjured from her bedroom, her face scrubbed clean of makeup. "We were about to send a search party or just eat all the pepperoni."

"Rescue accepted, but unnecessary", my son replied with that dry, tranquil wit of his, offering a polite nod to the group as he guided me towards the sofa. "Though I believe the pepperoni is safe with us."

Mina, who was reclined on the chaise longue with a slice of pizza poised daintily between her fingers, smirked as we approached. Her eyes, still holding that dark, predatory glint, swept over us. "You look positively glowing, Sana. Honestly, it's unfair. Most people look like death warmed up after... that level of cardio. You look like you've just had a month at a Swiss spa."

"It's all down to the excellent aftercare service," I teased, sinking gratefully onto the soft cushions. I kept the robe tight around me, relishing the feeling of cleanliness and warmth. My body felt heavy, used in the best possible way, a delicious ache lingering in my muscles that served as a constant reminder of what had transpired.

My son sat beside me, close enough that our thighs touched beneath the fabric of our robes. The contact was grounding, a silent reminder of the shift in our reality. He didn't reach for the food immediately; instead, he poured me a glass of water from the pitcher on the table, his movements precise and economical.

"You need to rehydrate," he declared quietly, pressing the cool glass into my hand. His blue eyes scanned my face with a clinical intensity that softened into affection. "Physiologically speaking, you lost a lot of fluids tonight."

I took the glass, fighting back a blush that had nothing to do with the heat of the room. "I think we established that rather spectacularly," I murmured, taking a long sip. The water was crisp and cold, exactly what I needed. I looked over at Tzuyu, who was sitting in the armchair, her legs tucked beneath her. She was watching us with that analytical gaze of hers, swirling a glass of soda thoughtfully.

"It is a matter of simple thermodynamics and biological limits," Tzuyu replied, her voice regaining its usual silky smooth cadence, though her eyes remained fixed on me with a new, unsettling intensity. She took a slow sip of her drink, condensation dripping onto her finger. "The human bladder shouldn't be capable of that volume without spontaneous rupture. I'm half-tempted to ask for a medical analysis."

I nearly choked on my water, spluttering slightly as I set the glass down. My son immediately reached out, his hand resting firmly and comfortingly on my lower back, rubbing small, soothing circles.

"I assure you, no medical intervention was required," he claimed calmly, his tone cutting through Tzuyu’s clinical curiosity with a polite finality. "It was merely a... intense release of tension. Perfectly natural, given the circumstances."

"Natural?" Tzuyu repeated, arching a perfectly sculpted brow. She set her glass down with a soft clink, her gaze drifting from my face to his, a flicker of genuine amusement breaking through her analytical veneer. "I've studied biology, sweetheart, and what happened out there was nothing short of a statistical anomaly – a delightful, terrifying anomaly." She picked up a slice of pizza, eyeing it with a sudden voraciousness. "But I suppose we can leave the scientific inquiry for another night; I'm starving."

"Please do", I replied, my voice regaining some of its usual bubbly strength as the food and water revitalised me. "I'm not sure my ego could survive a post-coital peer review of my... performance."

"Performance?" Mina laughed, a low, throaty sound, as she shifted on the chaise, making room for Nayeon to steal a crust from her box. "Sana, darling, that wasn't a performance. That was an exorcism. You were channelling something primal." She looked at my son, her eyes softening with a genuine warmth that caught me off guard. "And you... you have very steady hands for a boy of your age. You kept her safe."

"I'm her knight," he responded her. "It's my duty and outmost pleasure to keep her safe."

The table went quiet at that, save for the rhythmic crunch of Nayeon attacking her pizza crust. It wasn't an awkward silence, but rather a heavy, contemplative one, as if the title he had claimed so casually carried a weight none of us had anticipated. Mina paused, her slice halfway to her mouth, and looked at him with a new-found softness that stripped away her usual feline sarcasm.

"Her knight," she repeated, rolling the phrase around her mouth like a fine wine. She reached across the table, her fingers brushing against his where it rested on his knee. It wasn't a sexual advance this time, but a gesture of genuine respect. "You really mean that, don't you? It’s not just a roleplay thing for you."

"I take my responsibilities seriously," he replied, his voice low and calm, his blue eyes meeting hers without flinching. "And Sana is the most important responsibility I have.”

"Mina has a point, you know," Nayeon mused around a mouthful of spicy pepperoni, washing it down with a generous swig of soda. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her eyes darting between us with a speculative gleam that I knew all too well. It was the look she gave a pair of shoes she wanted to borrow, or a holiday destination she was determined to drag us all to. "You can't hoard a treasure like that forever, Sana. It’s... greedy."

I froze, my hand hovering halfway to the pizza box. The air in the room shifted instantly, the cosy camaraderie cooling into something tenser, heavier. My son’s hand on my back stilled, his fingers pressing slightly more firmly against my spine—a silent signal of support, or perhaps a warning. I looked at Nayeon, expecting to see a joke in her bunny-like smile, but her expression was deadly serious.

"Don't look at me like I'm asking for your kidney," Nayeon laughed, though her eyes remained fixed on him with a hungry curiosity. "I'm just saying... an exclusive contract is so last season. Why not open the bidding? Think of the fun we could have."

"I'm not asking for a bidding war," Mina interjected smoothly, her voice like dark velvet. She had abandoned her pizza, her focus entirely on us. "I'm asking for a loan. A... private exhibition. One on one." She glanced at Tzuyu, then back to me, her feline gaze heavy with intent. "We saw how he handles you, Sana. We felt the energy in this room. We’re curious to know if that focus... that intensity... translates. Surely you can understand the scientific curiosity?"

"And the sheer boredom," Tzuyu added dryly, though her eyes betrayed her. She wasn't bored; she was fascinated. "We’ve exhausted the dating pool in Tokyo. It’s either boys who play games or men who want to buy us. He..." She gestured towards him with her pizza crust. "He is a paradox. I want to deconstruct him."

"He's not a puzzle to be solved, Tzuyu," I said, my voice sharper than I intended, the protective flare sparking instantly in my chest. "And he's certainly not a toy to be passed around like a novelty bottle of champagne."

I looked at them—my three best friends, the women I had shared clothes, secrets, and beds with for years. They were gorgeous, successful, and accustomed to getting what they wanted. But this wasn't a designer handbag or a table at a VIP club. This was him. My son. My knight.

The silence stretched, thick and tense, broken only by the low hum of the city air conditioning. I felt the weight of their gazes, hungry and expectant, and for a moment, I felt the old Sana—the bubbly, people-pleasing pushover—trying to resurface. But then I felt his hand shift on my back, his thumb stroking my spine with a steady, grounding rhythm. He wasn't panicking. He was waiting. Trusting me.

I looked down at him, really looked at him, expecting to see a flicker of panic or perhaps a burning desire to say 'yes' to three of the most beautiful women in Tokyo. But he was perfectly composed, his profile serene in the warm light of the room. He took a casual sip of his water, his Adam's apple bobbing gently, completely unbothered by the auction taking place over his head. If anything, he seemed faintly amused by the notion that he was a prize to be won.

He wasn't just a boy I was hiding away; he was a partner who had just held my hand through a hurricane of pleasure and come out the other side holding me up. The idea of sharing that—the depth of his focus, the way he made me feel safe and wildly exposed all at once—it wasn't an act of charity. It was an act of pride. I wanted them to know exactly what I had. I wanted them to understand the quality of the man—no, the male—I was raising.

But I wasn't about to send him into the lion's den alone. The very thought of Mina's sharp nails or Tzuyu's cool, dissecting gaze on him without me there to anchor him made my stomach twist with a nausea that had nothing to do with the champagne. I wasn't jealous of the pleasure; I was terrified of the disconnect. What we had was a symbiotic thing, a feedback loop of love and lust that required us both to function.

"You want to borrow him?" I repeated, my voice dropping to a murmur as I turned the idea over in my mind. It was a dangerous thought, volatile and thrilling, like playing with matches in a dry forest. I looked from Mina’s hungry gaze to Tzuyu’s clinical dissection, and finally to Nayeon’s eager, bouncing anticipation. They wanted a taste of the fire that had nearly burned the apartment down. 

I looked down at my son again. He was watching me now, his blue eyes calm and clear, devoid of fear or objection. He was waiting for my lead, trusting my judgement with a faith that made my heart ache. He knew I was the gatekeeper. He knew that I held the keys to the kingdom.

I took a deep breath, the decision settling in my chest with a heavy, final kind of click. It was madness, absolute insanity, but as I looked at their faces—faces I loved as much as my own—I realised I didn't want to deny them anymore. I wanted to share my masterpiece. But on my terms.

I reached out, taking a slice of pizza from the box and biting into it without really tasting it, using the motion to buy myself a few seconds of thinking time. The cheese was hot and stringy, a mundane comfort against the wild, chaotic thrum of my thoughts.

"You want to know if he's as good as he looks," I stated finally, wiping my mouth with a napkin and meeting Mina’s eyes directly. "You want to see if that calm, tranquil demeanour cracks when he's inside you. If his hands are as steady when they're on someone else's skin."

"Well," Nayeon drawled, grinning unrepentantly. "When you put it that bluntly... yes. We’re only human, Sana. We just witnessed a religious experience. We want to know if we can get a ticket to heaven too."

I swallowed the rich, heavy cheese, washing it down with a gulp of water to clear my throat. The silence in the room was absolute, the kind that only happens when everyone is holding their breath, waiting for a verdict. I could feel the weight of their anticipation pressing against my skin, but more importantly, I could feel the steady, grounding warmth of my son beside me. He hadn’t flinched, hadn’t tensed; he was simply there, a solid pillar of support waiting for my command.

"I suppose," I began slowly, my voice gaining strength as I articulated the wild thought taking root in my mind, "I could be persuaded to share my... assets."

A collective exhale swept through the room, followed immediately by the sharp intake of breath that signalled victory. Nayeon actually pumped her fist, a childish gesture of delight that made me laugh despite the gravity of the situation.

"But," I continued, my voice hardening just enough to cut through their celebration, "there are conditions. Non-negotiable ones."

The smiles on their faces froze, hovering between delight and apprehension. I felt my son’s hand on my back give a gentle, reassuring squeeze, a silent acknowledgment that he was with me, whatever I decided. I looked at each of them in turn—Mina’s predatory intrigue, Nayeon’s wide-eyed eagerness, Tzuyu’s cool assessment—making sure they understood exactly what they were agreeing to.

"I'm not sending him off alone like a takeaway delivery," I stated firmly, picking up another piece of pizza and using it to gesture for emphasis. "If you want to experience what he has to offer, then you get both of us. We are a package deal."

"Both of you?" Nayeon repeated, her eyes going wide as she processed the caveat. She looked from me to him, and then back again, her brain clearly working overtime to calculate the logistics. "You mean... a threesome? Or a foursome? Or...?"

"I mean where he goes, I go," I clarified, taking a deliberate bite of my pizza to let the words sink in. I chewed slowly, watching the realisation dawn on their faces. "You want his focus? You get his mother watching him give it to you. You want his body? You have to deal with me directing the traffic. We are a unit, ladies. A symbiotic entity. You don't get to isolate the variable."

The silence that followed was heavy, charged with a sudden, electric tension. I half-expected them to laugh it off, to call me a clingy mother and demand the boy on his own. But instead, I watched the wheels turn. Mina’s dark eyes narrowed, her tongue darting out to wet her lips as she visualised the scenario. Tzuyu’s analytical gaze shifted from him to me, her brow furrowing slightly as if running a complex simulation in her head. And Nayeon... Nayeon looked like all her Christmases had come at once.

"Deal," Nayeon breathed, the word escaping her lips like a prayer. She didn't even blink. "Absolutely, one hundred percent, deal. God, Sana, you really know how to negotiate. That sounds... infinitely better, actually."

Mina was slower to respond, her gaze shifting from me to him with a heavy, languorous curiosity. She took a sip of her drink, her dark eyes smouldering. "A package deal," she murmured, rolling the phrase around her mouth like a decadent chocolate. "I suppose it makes sense. You two operate on a frequency the rest of us can't quite hear. Separating you might dampen the signal."

"I concur," Tzuyu added, her analytical mask slipping just enough to reveal a flash of genuine excitement. She set her glass down with a decisive click. "It adds a layer of complexity that is... intriguing. And honestly, after tonight, I wouldn't trust anyone else to curate the experience. You have the artistic vision, Sana."

"I want you to be an active participant in what we are going to do, not just the architect behind it," my son opined. 

I blinked, surprised by his sudden interruption. It wasn't like him to steer the conversation, especially when I was in the middle of laying down the law. I turned to look at him, finding his blue eyes fixed on the three women with a calm, predatory intensity that made the air in the room feel five degrees colder.

He took a slow sip of his water, his throat working, before placing the glass down on the coffee table with a deliberate clink. "Sana is protective," he asserted, his voice smooth and unruffled, cutting through the hum of the air conditioner. "And she has every right to be. But if we are to proceed with this... arrangement, I require an active partner in the room, not just a chaperone."

The three women stared at him, momentarily silenced by the quiet authority in his tone. It was the voice of the boy who had just commanded the room without raising his volume, the one who had held me while I shattered.

"You see," he continued, his gaze shifting from Tzuyu to Mina, and finally landing on Nayeon. "The connection we share is what gives me the capacity to perform as I do. If you want the experience Sana described, then you must accept that my focus relies on her presence as an active participant. I want her there, touching, guiding, and being touched. We feed off each other. Take away the interaction, and you're left with just a mechanic, not an artist."

The room was so silent you could have heard a pin drop, or more accurately, the distinct sound of three women simultaneously holding their breath. My son’s words hung in the air, heavy and charged, effectively shifting the dynamic from a business transaction to a collaborative art project. He wasn't just an asset to be leased; he was the conductor, and he was demanding his first violin.

I stared at him, a fresh wave of arousal mixing with a profound sense of pride. He hadn't just defended my presence; he had defined it. He was telling them that without me, the magic didn't exist. It was a validation so potent it made my chest tight.

"I think that's a fair point," Tzuyu said finally, her voice low and thoughtful. She looked at me, her eyes stripping away the last of my reservations until I felt naked under her gaze—more naked than I had been on the floor earlier. "And, if I'm being entirely honest, a more appealing proposition. Watching is stimulating, yes, but participation..." She trailed off, her tongue darting out to wet her lips, a gesture of pure, unadulterated hunger. "Participation is immersive.”

"You've made your case, knight," Tzuyu murmured, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across her face as she surveyed the four of us. She stood up, the movement fluid and graceful despite the lingering exhaustion in her limbs. "And I, for one, am ready to see where this... collaborative art... leads us. But that is a discussion for tomorrow. My brain is currently fried, and my bed is calling my name."

"Seconded," Nayeon groaned, practically rolling off the sofa in her exaggerated fatigue. She stretched her arms high above her head, her joints popping audibly, before padding towards the hallway on bare feet. "I love you all dearly, but if I don't get horizontal within the next five minutes, I might actually die. Sana, you know the drill—top and tail, or squeeze in the middle. Just... no more energetic gymnastics until I've had at least eight hours of REM sleep."

Mina rose with a languid stretch, her movements like a cat uncurling in a sunbeam. She offered us a mysterious, feline smile as she followed Nayeon. "Sweet dreams, you two. Try not to dream too... loudly."

The hallway to Nayeon’s bedroom was dimly lit, guided only by the soft amber glow of recessed floor lights. We walked in a loose procession, the silence broken only by the rustle of our robes and the soft thud of bare feet on the hardwood. My son’s hand was warm and steady at the small of my back, a constant anchor that kept me grounded as the adrenaline of the night finally began to ebb, leaving a heavy, pleasant lassitude in its wake.

Nayeon’s bedroom was as bold and vibrant as her personality—a sprawling space dominated by a massive king-sized bed piled high with velvet cushions and a faux-fur throw. The walls were painted a deep, moody plum, and the air smelled faintly of the vanilla candle she always kept burning on her nightstand.

It was a sanctuary, and right now, it looked like the most inviting place on earth.

"Left or right?" Nayeon mumbled, already halfway to burrowing beneath the duvet, her blonde hair fanning out across the dark pillowcases like spilled ink. "But don't you dare kick me. I have an early photoshoot tomorrow, and if I have bruises on my shins, Sana, I'm sending you the bill."

"Centre," I decided without hesitation, patting the expanse of mattress between us. "I need to be in the middle. It's... a strategic necessity."

The girls didn't argue, merely shifting with sleepy murmurs to create a space. Mina curled up on the edge, her breathing already slowing into the deep, rhythmic pattern of sleep, while Tzuyu lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling with a thoughtful expression that suggested she was still running calculations in her head. I climbed in, the cool sheets a stark contrast to the lingering heat in my skin, and immediately felt the bed dip as my son slid in beside me.

He moved with a fluid grace, settling onto his back and immediately opening his arm in a silent invitation. I didn't hesitate; I shuffled closer, moulding myself against his side with a familiarity that felt as natural as breathing. I rested my head on his chest, right over the steady, rhythmic thrum of his heart, and draped one leg across his thighs, tangling our limbs together beneath the heavy duvet.

"Is this comfortable?" he murmured, the vibration of his deep voice resonating through my cheek.

"Perfect," I sighed, closing my eyes as the lingering tension in my muscles finally began to unspool. The scent of him—clean skin, soap, and that underlying musk that was uniquely his—was the most soothing lullaby I could imagine. "You're my personal radiator now, sweetheart. Don't you dare go cold on me."

"No danger of that," he replied softly, his breath ruffling the hair on the top of my head. His arm tightened around my shoulders, pulling me impossibly closer until there was no space left between us, creating a warm, protected bubble amidst the soft tangle of limbs and expensive bedding. "I believe I generate sufficient thermal energy to keep you satisfied."

I let out a quiet, sleepy giggle, nuzzling my face into the crook of his neck. "You certainly do. You’re like a furnace. A very handsome, surprisingly strong furnace."

Around us, the sounds of the apartment began to settle. Nayeon’s breathing had already deepened into a soft, rhythmic snuffle, completely dead to the world. I could hear Mina shifting restlessly for a moment on the far edge before she too stilled, and even Tzuyu seemed to have abandoned her calculations, her breathing slow and steady in the dim light.

"I never want to move from this spot," I whispered into the darkness, the confession spilling out of me unbidden. The safety of his embrace, combined with the physical and emotional exhaustion of the night, had stripped away my last defences. "Tonight was... a lot. But being here, like this... it feels right."

"Sleep now, Sana," he murmured, his lips pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead, a benediction in the dark. "The world will still be there when we wake up."

NingNing wasn’t just any demon—she was the kind that didn’t claw her way into your nightmares but slithered into your waking thoughts. People called her the Siren of Melancholy, though she never sang. She didn’t need to. 

Her presence alone was a slow, creeping weight, pressing down until the chest caved in. Lost souls found her in their darkest moments, mistaking her cold embrace for comfort, her whispers for reason. They followed her into the dark, believing—hoping—she would make the pain stop. She never did.

You finally faced her the night before, but the sheer power and ferocity that she unleashed was unlike anything you'd ever encountered. NingNing's form shifted between shadow and smoke, her laughter—if you could call it that—a hollow, echoing sound that scraped against your bones. 

Your spells barely grazed her, and when you tried to bind her, the chains dissolved like sugar in water. Exhausted, you collapsed in the circle, watching as she melted back into the darkness, leaving only the faint scent of damp earth and something bittersweet behind.

You thought, desperate times only meant desperate measures, and it meant another trip to the notorious and mysterious mystic, Pastor Feelip.

He was all sorts of wrong, wrapped in silk robes and piety—that’s what they whispered about the said Pastor. Women left his chamber with their eyes glazed, lips slightly parted, murmuring praises to some unnamed god while their fingers absently traced the fresh marks along their thighs. 

The temple elders pretended not to notice, but the market stalls buzzed with the kind of stories that made old women clutch their beads tighter: how he’d coaxed the widow Katarina to her knees with scripture, how the merchant’s daughter had returned from confession with her hair undone and her wrists bound in red twine.

Yet despite all the murmurs, the man was the only one with the guidance to tame such a beast like NingNing.

And with that, you made your way out towards his chapel of sorts, a run-down barely functioning hut that stood on its last legs with vines wrapped all around it. The air outside was thick with incense and something muskier, clinging to the back of your throat like a promise you weren’t sure you wanted kept. 

Inside, Pastor Feelip lounged on a threadbare divan, his fingers tracing lazy circles in the air as smoke curled from a pipe clenched between his teeth. His eyes—dark, amused—locked onto yours the moment you stepped inside.

"Ah," he murmured, voice like gravel wrapped in silk.

"I see you have returned, Shaman. Your eyes tell me you've been through something rough..." He exhaled a slow stream of smoke, the scent of something vaguely narcotic clinging to the air. His robe slid open just enough to reveal the edge of a jagged scar—a mark you recognized. 

"What is it this time, Shaman? What kind of beast eludes your bonds?" He leaned forward, the pipe dangling between his fingers as his gaze pinned you like a moth to corkboard.

"Have you heard of NingNing, Pastor? The demon of sorrows? The one who claims the living through their most fragile moments?" you ask, watching his expression.

He paused, something you said clearly took the man aback. But his eyes told some level of recognition upon the creature.

"I have never of a NingNing before. But the sheer mention of the one who claims the living in their highest torment reminds of someone close to home. Yizhuo is what we call her. A woman in utter despair, who fed on the sorrows of the living." His voice dropped to a whisper, fingers tightening around the pipe.

"Take me to her. Guide me in the nether realm." He stated, knowing full well what he meant and how he was going to do it.

And with little doubt, you get on your knees to pray. The man slowly makes his way to your front and gently places his hand on your head.

"Close your eyes and heed my voice..." He whispered, his other hand gesturing the sign of the cross before gently pushing your forehead downwards—eyes shut.

The prayer he began was unlike anything you'd heard before—half whispered hymn, half choked moan—and as the syllables dripped from his lips, the air turned thick like molasses. The scent of damp earth and that bittersweet musk from NingNing’s presence flooded your senses, mingling with the spice of Pastor Feelip’s sweat.

And when you opened your eyes, you were there once more, that same black sky and red mystic plain you and NingNing dueled in your failed attempt in taming the beast.

You see her once again, face-to-face, as if she was ready for battle once more. Her face, her soothing yet false comfort—her face—the image of sorrow.

"Such sadness..." The pastor suddenly spoke, standing beside you as you both examined the feminine humanoid in despair.

Her arms, her seemingly harmless yet destructive arms reached out in search of comfort, in solace of pain—her false love that lingered deep inside your own sorrows.

"Fighting her is useless," he murmured, his breath hot against your ear.

"Can you not see the torment she's in? Can you not feel the hunger in her touch?" His voice was low, urgent, his fingers pressing into your shoulder as NingNing's fingers brushed the air just inches from your face.

"She doesn't want to fight you. She wants you to *understand*." The Pastor's hand slid down your arm, his grip tightening as NingNing's hollow eyes locked onto yours.

Her fingers trembled—not with malice, but with something worse: longing. The kind that gnawed at the edges of sanity, the kind that made widows weep into empty beds. The pastor exhaled sharply, his lips grazing your ear.

"Give in... Make her feel the comfort she craves," The Pastor urged, his voice fraying at the edges.

Her fingers hovered just above your collarbone now, her touch like winter air—cold, but not biting. Her lips parted, releasing a sigh that carried the scent of funeral lilies and the iron tang of old blood. You shuddered, but the Pastor's grip held you steady.

"She's starved," he whispered. "Feed her."

And that was when your lips combined. You kiss the demon's mouth, expecting her to taste like bile, vermin, blood, anything you could think of that was close to the devil. But to your surprise, NingNing's lips tasted like honey and cinnamon—like the sweetest tea your mother once brewed as a sick child. 

The scent of funeral lilies clung to her skin, but underneath it, you caught something warm, almost alive. Her breath hitched against yours, her fingers curling into the fabric of your robes like she was afraid you'd vanish.

Your hands start to touch the creature's physique, expecting nothing but air in her spiritual form. Yet NingNing's body responds to your touch—soft, yielding flesh beneath her ghostly silhouette, like silk draped over feverish skin. The pastor's voice fades into the red-hued void, his presence dissolving into the background as NingNing presses closer, her hips rolling against yours with a rhythm that isn't quite human. Her sighs morph into low, shuddering moans, each one laced with the weight of centuries of loneliness.

You find yourself slowly clinging on to her, her ass, in whatever shape or form, filling your hands as you squeezed and kneaded her flesh—her sorrowful moans echoing through the void. Each press of her body against yours sent tremors through you, not of fear, but of something darker—desire laced with the ache of shared despair. 

Her nails raked down your back, not to wound, but to anchor herself as she arched into you, her breath coming in ragged gasps against your lips. The scent of funeral lilies grew thicker, mingling with the salt of sweat and the musk of something primal.

"Oh god... Oh-Ohhh..."

You cowered in fear when she detaches her lips, her mouth slightly open to reveal the sharp canines of her teeth, the kind that resembled serpents where her long and elongated tongue slithered out and licked her own lips—her drool thick and dripping, coating her chin in a glistening sheen.

You watch her slowly get down, sinking herself down into the realm of getting down to her knees. Her reptilian-like eyes stay glued against yours as she discarded your pants down in one go, your flaccid yet semi-erect cock springing out and slapping against your abdomen—NingNing’s lips curling into something between a smirk and a snarl. Her tongue—longer than any human’s, slick with saliva—slithered out, the tip flicking against your tip before dragging slowly down the length of you, leaving a cold, wet trail in its wake. You shuddered, not just from the sensation, but from the way her hollow eyes burned into yours, like she was memorizing every twitch of your expression.

"Ahh!!!"

And that's when she swallowed you whole. Her mouth—unnaturally wide—engulfed your length in one swift motion, her throat fluttering around you like a living, pulsing vice. The heat was unbearable as if it was hell itself, her tongue coiling around you in sinuous waves as she hummed, the vibration traveling straight to your core. Her drool dripped thick and hot down your thighs, mingling with the sweat already gathering there.

Your fingers tangled in her hair—or what passed for it—gripping tight as she bobbed her head with a rhythm that was close violent. Her hollow eyes never left yours, pupils dilated wide, black pools reflecting your own unraveling. Feelip’s voice echoed faintly in the distance, murmuring something about surrender, but his words dissolved into static as NingNing’s fangs grazed your skin.

She pulled back just enough to let you see the slick mess she’d made of you, her tongue lapping at the underside of your dick like she was savoring your taste.

Then before you could utter a breath, she sank down again, deeper this time, her throat constricting in waves that made your eyes blur. A moan, if you could even call it that, tore from her lips—half sob, half growl—vibrating through your body.

The way her maw wrapped around your cock felt like she was sucking the life out of you—not just your pleasure, but the very essence of your sorrows. Her throat pulsed rhythmically, each swallow dragging you deeper into a wet, shuddering oblivion. Her claws dug into your thighs, not to restrain, but to pull you closer, urging you to fuck her face with abandon.

And so you do, gripping whatever material she had on her hair, your fingers digging into her scalp as you began thrusting into her throat—hard, unforgiving, the kind of brutal rhythm that made your knees shake. The demoness gagged, her throat convulsing, yet she didn’t pull away; her hollow eyes watered, yet she kept them locked onto yours, like she wanted to drown in this as much as you did. 

Her drool spilled past her lips, dripping in thick strands onto the red plain beneath you. Each snap of your hips punched a wet, choked sound from her, the vibrations of her moans traveling up your cock like live wires.

"Shit! Shit! Shit!"

You start to feel that heavy tingling sensation, that sign that you were about to combust—but NingNing knew. Of course she did! Just as your hips stuttered, her fingers dug into the meat of your thighs, her throat clamping down like a vice as she swallowed you whole, her tongue writhing beneath your shaft in ways no human could.

The orgasm ripped through you like a blade, your vision whiting out as she drank you down in greed, choking gulps, her hollow eyes rolling back in something close to ecstasy. She stuck her mouth into you like she wanted to take every litre and every drop of your essence into her, like your soul was wine for her to sip. 

When she finally pulled back, her lips were slick with spit and seed, her tongue flicking out to catch the last stray drops.

You thought that was it. That should've been it! You were spent from that one orgasm alone, the biggest you thought came out of your dick. But when she traced patterns on your groin, her voice uttered words in a language you did not understand as she casted a spell on you.

And before you knew it, your crotch burst into life, albeit painfully. Your spent cock comes back to life slowly… You felt the sheer liquid re-filling your dick like it was a balloon, veins throbbing as NingNing licked her lips in anticipation. You gasped at the sensation—not pleasure, but raw, overwhelming pressure—as she dragged her clawed fingertips down your stomach.

And in an instant, she vanished into thin air, the black empty void leaving you confused—but not for long.

You turned around only to find her laying on a *bed* of sorts, clouds of red mists surrounding the object as she laid her legs wide open—her *pussy* dripping wet, juices coating her thighs in thick rivulets. Her fingers traced lazy circles around her clit, her hollow eyes never leaving yours as she beckoned you forward with a curl of her elongated tongue.

Her arm reached out in a plea, seeking her solace, seeking her comfort, seeking for you... Her lips parted, not in a snarl this time, but in a silent gasp as she arched her back, presenting herself to you—not as a demon to conquer, but as a creature starving for connection.

And that is when you loom over her and slide yourself inside her—albeit reluctantly—the creature's inner walls enveloping you in a tight, pulsing grip. Her insides felt unnaturally warm, slick with something thicker than human arousal, clinging to your cock like she's trying to fuse you into her. 

She arches beneath you, her breath stuttering into a series of choked moans, her fingers raking across your back in desperate, uneven strokes. Every thrust drags a broken sound from her—not pleasure, not pain, but something raw and ancient.

"Is this what you want? Is this what you desire?" You whisper as your hands trace the contours of NingNing's waist, fingertips skimming the dip of her hips with a tenderness that belies the heat of the moment.

Her skin, though spectral, yields beneath your touch like silk over warm water, and she shudders—not in fear, but in quiet astonishment. The demon of sorrows arches into your palms as if starved for gentleness, her breath hitching when your thumbs brush the underside of her breasts, slow and deliberate. For a creature forged from despair, her whimper is startlingly human.

She does not respond with words, just nods and ghastly moans that fill the void like hymns. Her fingers intertwine with yours, pressing your palms against the dip of her waist as if anchoring herself to this moment—to you. 

Her thighs tremble around your hips, not with the cold bite of the nether realm, but with the feverish heat of something alive, something desperate. Each shallow thrust draws a whimper from her lips, her head tipping back to expose the delicate column of her throat, where shadows pulse beneath her skin like a second heartbeat.

You up the pace and angle your hips just right, watching her eyes widen as you hit a spot deep inside her that makes her spine bow off the bed. Her moans turn ragged, nails scoring crescents into your shoulders, but it's the way her body clenches around you—like she's trying to pull you deeper than flesh should allow—that undoes you. 

"Take it! Take it!" You tell her as you fuck her like it was the last act.

You feel her tighten around you, her inner ethereal walls fluttering as if trying to milk every last drop from you. Her breath comes in ragged gasps, her lips parted in silent screams as her hips buck against yours with desperate urgency.

The air thickens with the scent of her arousal—like wilted roses dipped in honey—and the sound of skin slapping against skin echoes through the void. Her claws dig into your back, drawing beads of blood that she licks away with a shudder, savoring the taste of your desperation mingling with hers.

Her moans crescendo into a wail as her body seizes, her cunt pulsing like a living thing, sucking you deeper as if to fuse your bones with hers. You feel her climax ripple through her in waves, her thighs trembling against your hips, her tears hot against your chest.

But she doesn’t stop—she *can’t*. Her hips roll with a frenzied need, her hands clawing at your back, urging you to chase your own release inside her. Her voice cracks as she whispers words in a tongue older than time, syllables that slither under your skin and coil around your spine, pulling you inexorably toward the edge.

And when you finally burst inside her—deeper than you thought possible—she locks her legs around your waist, holding you there as if afraid you'll vanish the moment you pull out. Her fingers rake down your back, her breath hitching as she feels you twitch inside her, spilling everything you have left. She clenches around you hard, milking every last drop, her hollow eyes wide with something almost like wonder—as if she’d forgotten what it felt like to be full.

"Now! Claim her now!"

And that was when the pastor's voice called out to you! You take out your book of demons and claim the demoness into her new prison—her cries fading into silence as the pages glow with her name etched in black ink. The scent of funeral lilies lingers, but her warmth is gone—trapped now in parchment and ink. Your hands shake as you clutch the book, the weight of it heavier than before, as if NingNing's sorrows have seeped into the very fibers.

You close your eyes, the sharp pain in your head claiming your consciousness—but not before you hear NingNing's final whisper, a sound like rustling pages and distant rain. 

The world tilts, your knees buckling as the weight of exhaustion and the remnants of her touch drag you down into the dark. The last thing you feel is the cold press of the book against your chest, its pulse slow and steady, like a heartbeat not your own.

*Epilogue

"You took your time, Shaman..."

The first thing you hear upon waking up was the sound of Pastor Feelip's voice—hoarse and raspy as he smoked his pipe—his words curling into the air like incense smoke. Your throat was dry, your clothes damp with sweat that had long since turned cold against your skin.

The smell of funeral lilies lingered faintly on your fingertips, but the bed beneath you was unmistakably real—rough cotton sheets, the scratch of straw stuffing poking through the mattress. You blinked up at the peeling plaster ceiling, your muscles aching as if you'd fought a battle in your sleep.

"You got her, Shaman. Her name is right here, draped in cold blood..." The man pointed out, opening a page in your book where NingNing's name pulsed like a fresh wound.

The ink was still wet, glistening black and viscous—smelling faintly of damp earth and bitter honey. You reached out to touch it, recoiling when the letters twitched under your fingertip, as if something beneath the page stirred. Feelip chuckled, low and knowing, tapping the pipe against his teeth.

"She's yours now—but be careful. Even trapped, she's hungry." He added.

"I will, Pastor. Thank you once more." You couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt—or was it pity?—as you traced NingNing's name in the book, feeling the faintest pulse beneath the ink, like a moth trapped behind glass.

The weight of her sorrow lingered in your fingertips, sticky as resin. You closed the tome with a snap that echoed too loudly in the cramped hut, the sound final.

"Anytime, Shaman. I'm always at your service. May God be with you…”

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 SinB sat at home, wondering what to do. She had nothing planned, and while she could go out, she didn't particularly want to. As she turned over in bed, she looked at her nightstand. On the little table were her toys, various dildos and vibrators, shamelessly sitting there. SinB debated using them, but there was little desire to do so. A toy was good and all, but right now SinB felt like it wouldn't be enough; she wanted the real thing.

The young woman huffed. She reached over and grabbed her phone. She flicked through pictures and opened apps, going through everything in her boredom. Then she saw something that caught her eye. It was a cock, a long and thick one. She wasn't shocked; on the internet, people got around to posting things they definitely shouldn't have, and they'd be banned for it. Still looking at it, it piqued her interest. Then she read the caption, which was asking for someone to fuck in their area. Better yet, it was close to SinB; she recognized the address. SinB made another account; she wouldn't be caught using her own to direct message someone.  She took a deep breath and began typing out a message. She saw what she liked and wanted it. SinB might not have known what kind of girl you were into, but she figured with a cock like that, someone submissive might seem better. SinB could play any role, so it didn't matter that much. Once the message was sent, she took a deep breath. Hopefully, she would get a message back soon. In a blink-and-you'll-miss-it moment, she got an immediate response. She was a little shocked to hear back so quickly, but it was all for the better. She had an itch that needed scratching. 

You and SinB chatted, exchanging quick pleasantries before getting down to business. 

“So you’re looking to fuck?”

“Yeah, I really need a big fat cock right now.”

“I’m going to need to see a photo,” you text. SinB furrowed her brow; she didn’t exactly want to show her face. 

“Is a body shot okay?”

“That’ll work, but I want it nude.” 

“Fair enough,” she thought to herself. This was for the purposes of fucking, and they’d see each other later. SinB stood out of bed and walked over to the floor-length mirror. It was a good thing she was already naked—a small perk of sleeping in the nude. SinB gives a quick peace sign before snapping the picture. She looked it over quickly, making sure her face wasn’t visible and nothing of note was in the background. Once she was sure, she sent it over to you. “I’ll be wearing a mask during this. As much as I need you to fuck me up with your cock, I don’t need anyone to know what I’m doing.”

“Fine by me, but I’m going to need one more picture, from the back this time.” SinB rolled her eyes at the request. At this point, she thought she was in for a penny, in for a pound. She turned around and snapped a picture of her backside. The picture was sent, and then the two of you began discussing details. “Can I come over now?” She asked. The response was an immediate yes. Finally securing a fuckbuddy. SinB started to get dressed. The young woman didn’t bother to wear panties or a bra. They wouldn’t be of any use anyway. 

Dressed, SinB went on her way to your home. She did have to make a quick return to grab a mask. In her haste, she had nearly forgotten to put one on. She was right, the place was nearby. The moment she stepped into your home, you commanded her to strip down. Considering you were already naked, she had no problem with it. The young woman’s eyes were glued to your stiff cock. You hadn’t lied about what you were packing, and for that, she was thankful. She was also thankful you happened to pop up on her feed. You lead the young woman to your bedroom and take a seat on the bed. “Crawl for me, let me see what I bagged.”

SinB was glad that what lay before her matched the pictures she had seen. She smiled behind her mask and dropped to her knees. She crawled toward you, keeping her back arched and hips swaying. She would be happy to service you. She wrapped her hand around your length, her thumb tracing one of your veins. She moved along your shaft, watching your cock intently. She was getting wetter just looking at it. A handjob wasn’t going to be enough. “Go on and suck it. I see that look in your eyes.”

SinB smirked. She knew she had a terrible poker face when it came to sex.  SinB inched closer to you. She pulled the bottom of her mask and stuck her tongue out, the slick tip appearing to you, dripping saliva onto the tip of your cock. She moved lower, concealing your length as she wrapped her lips around it. It's like a disappearing act with the mask involved. Your cock disappearing into the young woman’s moist and warm mouth. You groan, enjoying the experienced mouth of your new fuck buddy. She moves along your shaft, reaching the base with a little effort. It turns you on the way she chokes on your cock, the small gags, and the teary eyes as she forces herself to stay near the base. 

You remember her opening messages and take advantage of this opportunity. You place your hands on the sides of SinB’s head and start thrusting your hips, fucking her face with increasing pace. SinB relaxed her jaw, letting you do as you pleased. There was something about having a cock being rammed down her throat that turned her on. Her hand went between her legs, finding her sopping cunt. She rubbed her clit, going in small circles. SinB’s moans were muffled at times, but you could tell she was trying to speak. What she said didn’t matter because you both knew she wanted this. The young woman placed her hand on your thigh, gripping it tightly as she got closer to cumming. “You love being facefucked, don’t you, you little slut.”

“I love it. I love big fucking cocks,” SinB tried to say. It was all but impossible with your cock still ramming the back of her throat. Her eyes shot open for a brief moment as you held her to your crotch. Then they slowly fell, half-lidded as your thickcum poured down her throat. You pulled out a bit, letting the young woman enjoy the taste as it filled her mouth. You might not have been able to see it, but SinB’s cheeks were hollowed out as she sucked as hard as she could, wanting every last drop. Even once your orgasm has ended, SinB keeps sucking, bobbing her head a few more times before leaving it with a pop.

The young woman makes sure to adjust her mask, keeping it over the lower half of her face. Her eyes never leave your cock, though, even after cumming, you were still hard.“Fuck, you really know how to treat a guy’s cock right. Why don’t you climb on up and ride this thing?”

SinB climbs onto you. She squats above your cock, her hand wrapping around your slick shaft as she aligns her aching cunt with you. “I’ve needed this all day.”

“Then go on, ride this fucking dick like your life depends on it.” You bring your hand to SinB’s ass, making her suppress a moan. She giggles before lowering herself. The young woman cranes her neck, eyes shutting as she relishes the sensation of your cock stretching her entrance. The head was splitting her apart, and as she took more into her warm folds, SinB’s voice trickled out. This was just what she had been craving. She took your cock deep into her needy cunt, stretching it to its limits. SinB let out a loud groan. She was absolutely stuffed. You were pressing against her womb. The young woman pushed on her knees to lift herself. It was difficult, though; her walls were clamping onto your cock, refusing to let it go easily. 

“C’mon slut, bounce on this dick,” you tell her, spanking her ass. SinB drops onto your cock one more time. The vice grip she has on you feels incredible, along with the warmth of her core. The pace she was moving at, though, left a lot to be desired. “I’ll do it myself,” you tell the young woman, grabbing onto her waist. You begin to bounce SinB on your cock, with a little force, you can easily slide her along your length, her slick walls still desperate for your cock. SinB grips your arms, moaning constantly. You watch her small tits bounce along with her, her soft flesh jiggling. 

You begin to thrust into her, adding to the pleasure she feels. “Fuck, fuck,” SinB grunts. She places her hands on your chest, supporting herself as you drive yourself into her. “I-I can’t–cumming!” SinB cries out, her walls clamping down on your shaft. As SinB cums on your cock you slip your hands under her legs and around her back. You slowly rise to your feet, keeping yourself connected to the young woman. You walk over to the windows, pressing her against it as you ram your length into her womb. SinB cries out. She presses her hands against the glass; her feet are by her head as you fold her in half. The only support she has is your hands on her ass. She feels your nails digging into her flesh, and your rough thrusts bring her to the edge of another orgasm. 

“Is this what you wanted?”

“Yes! Yes! It’s exactly what I wanted, what I needed.” SinB shouts, more moans spilling from her lips with every thrust, the sound filling the room along with the clapping of your bodies.

“Yeah, tell me all about it.”

“Toys can’t even compare to the real thing. A real fucking cock doesn’t stretch me out and fuck me until I can’t feel my legs.” SinB’s head rests against the glass, her core tightens as her orgasm approaches, and as much as she tries to hold it back, it becomes impossible. 

“A toy can’t cum inside you either,” you remark, burying yourself inside her fertile cunt. SinB lets out a low groan as your cum is pumped into her body. You feel her walls flexing around your cock, dragging every drop of cum out of you. “Such a tight cunt, I bet you want more, don’t you?”

“Please, please, fill my slutty pussy with more cum,” She mumbles. You bring SinB over to the bed, turning her onto her stomach and raising her ass into the air. You bring your hand down on her ass once more; the few strikes you’ve given her already have her skin turning a bright red. “More,” SinB groans, shaking her ass for you. You smirk as the young woman asks for more punishment. You bring your hands down on her cheeks, watching her ass recoil. You deliver more strikes, alternating which cheek gets hit. SinB keeps her face to the mattress and ass raised high, each hit had her biting her bottom lip, pleasure building from each stinging hit. 

She took a deep breath when the spanking finally ended. Then she cried out as you pierce her with your length. You hold onto her waist with one hand as the other grabs her hair. You pull her head back as you drive your cock back into her. SinB has drool dripping from the corners of her mouth, soaking her mask as you drive her crazy. Each thrust makes her lurch forward. When you pull her back, you match it with a thrust, making sure each time you ram into her womb. 

“Oh, fuck, fuck,” SinB mumbles, her body tingling all over. She could only focus on the sensation of your slick cock sliding in and out of her, pushing your cum out of her cunt to make room for more. As your cock began to throb, SinB tried pushing her ass back against you. She had little strength, though at the moment, she was nothing more than a toy for you to use, and she had no problem with that. The itch that had been bothering her was finally gone, and on top of that, she found someone who could be a great fuck buddy. The moment you buried yourself inside her, SinB reached another peak, her vision blurring as you came inside her again. Your searing cum poured into her womb again. If she wasn’t on the pill, she was certain you would get her pregnant with the amount you were pumping into her. Even with your cock inside her, it began to flow out of her abused cunt. Her pussy is left gaping as you pull out and spurt the last of your cum onto her back. SinB lets out a shuddered sigh. She felt content. You take a seat beside SinB, looking at your work. 

After some time, SinB regains enough energy. “That was amazing.”

“Yeah, now why don’t you take a little walk of shame, go back home with my cum on your back?”

“Okay,” SinB said with a giggle. SinB slowly got up, her legs wobbly as she dressed herself. The amount of cum you poured into her left the crotch of her pants wet, and her backless shirt made it quite obvious what she had done. “How about I come back in a couple of days?”

It had only been a few days since their lustful encounter on the bed next to Josh. Even just the thought of it now made her want to cum. It had been so hot. She thought about getting her vibrator out and releasing some of the built up lust that was clawing at her inside, until she remembered that she had threw it away as it no longer satisfied her needs. She had gone way past the point where sex was just all action. She had to have risk and erotic situations now to give her the biggest orgasms she could. Every time she had cheated on Josh, she had had a bigger and bigger orgasm. The more risky and naughty, the hotter the fucking and the wilder the climax. She was addicted now. It wasn't that Josh was a bad lover, she thought to herself as she picked up and discarded a pink sports bra, he was amazing at sex and the best boyfriend she could ask for. He just couldn't give her the erotic illicit action she needed. He loved to be risky too, but even the riskiest sex they had ever had couldn't beat the orgasms she had received lately. She was looking forward to the fucking that Ben would give her tonight while everyone else was playing poker. She loved the stories of husbands or boyfriends betting their women in poker games and losing them so their friends could fuck them. She fantasized about Ben winning her that night and either taking her to their bedroom and fucking her while Josh knew what was happening down stairs, or Ben just fucking her right in front of her boyfriend. The thoughts made her loins tingle even more. It wasn't like she was horny from not having sex lately, not this time; she was just addicted to the hot sex now. It had become almost like a drug for her. The more she had it and the more she pushed the illicit boundaries further, the more she needed it and the more illicit things became. For instance, Josh's boss loved fucking her, and although she didn't like the old man and was far from attracted to him, she couldn't resist it because of how hot it was.

I had grown sullen and depressed, and my wife would tear into me about it, saying, how did I think she felt? Over time, our eighteen-year-old daughter had taken notice of our arguments. She approached me one afternoon while her mother was at work. She'd asked me how I was doing. When I told her that things were rough since she got hurt, I tried to sound positive and said that we'd get through it. That's when my daughter, Iroha, told me that she thought mom was faking so she wouldn't have to have sex. When I asked her what gave her that idea, she told me that she'd caught Mom masturbating and that she keeps a dildo in the bottom drawer of her nightstand. I immediately went to look, and sure enough, there was a ten-inch dildo under her nightie and body lotions.

I was at a loss for words. I was heartbroken. My wife had been lying to me because she didn't want to have sex with me. Anger, rage, and betrayal all flooded my mind and quickly led to thoughts of leaving her. Iroha sat on the edge of the bed next to me, telling me that she didn't want to be from a divorced home. She said that she'd be willing to help out. That she'd do anything to keep us together. She hugged me from the side, pressing her large breasts into my shoulder. She snorted when I asked what she thought she could do to save our marriage. She sank to her knees at my feet, looking up into my eyes, saying, "I'll do anything to keep you from leaving us, Dad."

I surveyed a canyon of cleavage as I looked down, watching my little girl staring up at me with pleading puppy dog eyes. She slid her hands up my thighs to the zipper of my pants. I sat in utter shock, frozen as she unzipped my pants. Iroha slipped her hand in the opening of my boxers to fish my penis out of my pants. She blushed at its size when she finally freed my trouser snake.

My cock is a modest eight inches and was likely the biggest that she'd ever seen. "Let me help you, Daddy," she whispered as she took my cock between her lips, sucking me erect. Her head bobbed as she swirled her tongue down the length of my shaft. My little girl sucked my cock until I released my seed into her mouth. I could hear her gulp as she swallowed my cum. It had been so long that there must have been a gallon of it.

Once she finished swallowing every last drop, she rose to her feet, wiping her lips. I stood there wobbly kneed, uncertain whether to thank her or not. When I opened my mouth to speak, she stopped me, saying that she was glad to do it as long as it kept me from leaving the family. She hugged me and said, "Let me know when you need me to help you again," as she left the room. I was left dumbfounded. Iroha had just sucked my cock to keep me from divorcing her mother. I was stunned and aroused at the same time. Iroha let me know that she was available for sex when I needed her.

My cock was swinging in the breeze as I followed her down the hallway to her room. I walked into her room just as she sat on the foot of her bed. I don't remember doing it, but I had shed the rest of my clothes by the time I had gotten to her room. I never dreamed I'd ever be thanking my daughter for a blow job, but here I was. I thanked her and asked her what she meant. "I mean, I don't want to be from a broken home," she said. "And if that means that I have to take over for Mom, then I will. If she's going to be selfish, then I will fuck you. I will do anything to keep you happy."

Hearing my little girl say that she'd fuck me sent a tingle through my balls, and I started to get hard again. I was standing right in front of her, and she grinned when my pecker stared her in the face. She smiled as she stood and slipped her shirt over her head. She then stripped off the rest of her clothing and stood fully nude in front of me. She was absolutely gorgeous, all five feet of her. Her golden hair was tied in pigtails with little bows. Her slender body looked like an anime character with her life-preserver sized tits. She took my hand and pulled it into her clean-shaven vagina, pushing my finger between her wet puffy pussy lips. I leaned in and kissed her as my fingers penetrated her vagina. Our lips parted at the same time, and our tongues danced in each other's mouths while I slid my finger in and out of her slippery slit.

I swept Iroha off her feet, carried her around to the side, and placed her on the bed, climbing in next to her. I leaned over her, kissing her softly, thanking her for being such a loving and giving daughter. I asked her if she was sure she wanted to do this. "I'm not a little girl anymore, Daddy," she said, bringing her lips to mine, kissing me, and driving her tongue back into my mouth. "Dad, I'm not leaving for college in the fall unless I know you and Mom aren't going to split up," she said adamantly. "Otherwise, I will attend locally."

I cupped her breast, sucking the nipple as I slid my fingers back into her warmth. My thumb grazed her clit, eliciting a faint moan. I did it again and again, softly rubbing circles on her clitoris. I fingered her until she came. I wanted to pleasure my daughter as she had just done for me. I spread her legs and positioned myself between her thighs, kissing her glistening pussy lips. I slid my tongue between the folds of her labia, dipping it into her drooling hole, fucking her with my tongue. I raised her knees, laying her legs over my shoulders as I licked her to another orgasm. My little girl wrapped her legs around my head and began to hump my face. She grabbed my head, pulling it harder to her cunt as she drove her tight little twat into my mouth. She gasped as a powerful climax hit her like a ton of bricks. Her hips bucked and undulated until her climax ebbed. I tried to slip my fingers back into her pussy, but she pushed my hand away, saying, "No, Daddy. I want your cock in me. Get on your back."

I fell off the bed when I tried to lie next to her. I laughed, telling her that maybe it was time we got her a bigger bed. My baby girl crawled off the bed so I could lie down. She straddled me, dangling her breasts over my face. I grabbed her titties, pressing my face into her boobs, kissing and sucking them. Iroha slid her slipping slit on my cock, guiding its tip into her dripping hole. Her mouth gaped wide as she lowered herself onto my rigid member. She exhaled, "Ahhh fuuuck," escaped her lips as my cock bottomed out inside her pussy. I pointed her nipples together and sucked them in unison, flicking them with my tongue as she began to ride my cock. God, she was tight. Her twat gripped my cock like a python with its prey. It didn't take long before she was squealing with delight. Wave after wave of orgasm washed over her as she continued to hump her hips on my dick. My baby girl grabbed the headboard as she pounded herself faster on my cock. I could feel her twat pulsing on my shaft as she was building to another colossal climax. Her cunt muscles gripped my shaft tightly as she climaxed, pushing me over the edge. "Baby, I'm going to cum!" I gasped.

"Go ahead, Daddy. Cum in me. Cum in my cunt," she hissed in ecstasy.

I grabbed her hips, thrusting my cock as deep as I could into her tantalizing tight twat. She came as soon as my steamy seed streamed into her cunt. "God, I'm cumming!" I groaned.

"Me too, Daddy. Me too!" she shrieked.

She started bucking her hips front and back, grinding the tip of my cock against her cervix as I filled her with my warm goo. She pulled a bit too hard on the headboard, breaking it. A loud CRACK echoed in the room as it snapped, hitting me on the head. The two of us continued humping each other, desperately trying to extend our ecstasy. Just as Iroha fell onto my chest in exhaustion, the head of the bed fell to the floor. "Jesus, Dad. What a way to make our first fuck memorable," she laughed as she tried to get up.

"Well, shit! How are we going to explain that to Mom?" she asked.

"Let's go and get you a new bed before mom gets home," I said. "Call it a thank you for fucking my brains out."

"That's what I was going to say," Iroha said as she wiped my cum out of her dripping hole.

"Oh, Sweetie. I'm sorry, I didn't even think about using a condom," I apologized.

"Dad, I've been on the pill since I was sixteen. Remember?" she asked.

We decided to go get my truck to work today from the plant where my wife works. She was working twelve-hour shifts, and I thought I would exchange vehicles and park the car in the same spot. Hopefully, she'd figure out what we did. As we were leaving the lot after exchanging vehicles, we saw my wife getting into a male coworker's car. We watched as her head quickly disappeared below the dashboard. Iroha and I sat in utter shock as the man reclined the driver's seat. Every once in a while, we would see the top of my wife's head bob up and down. Iroha fumed, calling her mother a fucking slutty bitch.

I drove closer to where they were parked and shut the truck off. We watched as my wife's head bobbed faster in the guy's lap. Iroha and I got out of the truck, leaving the doors open so as not to alert them of our presence. I realized that my wife was sucking her married supervisor's cock during their lunch break. She'd pulled her shirt up and undid her bra so the guy could play with her tit while she blew him. I don't know why, but I grabbed my phone and started recording just before Iroha knocked on the window, yelling, "You cheating slut. Fuck you, Mom, for wrecking our family!"

My wife's head came up just as the guy started blowing his wad. Streams of cum shot up, splashing off of her face. Her mouth dropped open in shock at being discovered with another guy's dick in her mouth. The guy's last spurt of cum landed on her on her lips as she screamed that she was sorry. The screams of my wife and daughter attracted the attention of other employees who were on break, and a number of employees approached to see what the commotion was about. Luckily, none of them pulled out their cell phones like I had. My wife scrambled to cover herself, slipping in the process, and smashed the guy in the nuts as she fell forward. He screamed in pain as my wife pushed down with that hand to raise herself off of him. She scrambled out of the car with her tits still out while the guy lay there doubled over in agony. "Oh my god!" my wife gasped as the CEO and the head of HR walked up. Both my wife and the dude she was blowing burst into tears when the CEO told them not to bother punching out. You're both fired! A couple of people in the back of the crowd clapped.

"Don't bother coming home," I told my wife as she pleaded with me.

"Where am I supposed to go?" she wailed. "He's married."

"He won't be when this goes viral!" I said, still recording.

"Pleeease noo," my wife cried after Iroha and I as we got back into the truck to leave.

I gave Iroha the keys to the car, telling her to drive it home and leave my wife stranded. I called my daughter, asking her to have my toolbox out when I got home. I was going to stop at the hardware store by our house and pick up new door locks for the house. My phone started ringing as soon as I hung up with Iroha. My wife was calling me, so I swiped to reject the call and sent it to voicemail. She called twice more than I sped to the hardware store. I answered the last call when my thumb accidentally bumped the answer tab on the steering wheel. I could hear my wife wailing over the phone. She must have inadvertently redialed me, as she was arguing with the guys about giving her a ride home. The guy told her to fuck off. He had his own problems having to explain to his wife why he got fired. I hung up as I pulled into the parking lot of the hardware store.

I grabbed two new knobs and deadbolt kits and quickly headed home. I wanted to change the locks before my wife had a chance to get home. I pulled into the garage and closed the door behind me. My darling daughter had used my screw gun and already had the front door deadbolt and door knob removed by the time I got home. She went to remove the locks from the back door while I installed the new locks. The whole time we were working to change the locks, our phones rang. First mine, then the house phone, and finally my daughters. I disconnected the house phone and then blocked my wife's number on my cell. Iroha listened to a couple of messages from her mom before she, too, blocked her mom's number.

After we finished, we put the tools away. I went upstairs to our bedroom and packed up a bunch of my wife's clothes into plastic garbage bags. Iroha tossed her mother's toiletries into a bag as well. We threw them on the front porch with a note saying, "I reported all of your credit cards stolen except the Visa. Don't bother knocking. Just take your shit and go!"

The icing on the cake was when Iroha came running out of the house with her mom's dildo and placed it on the stack of trash bags. As we went back inside, Iroha reminded me about the external keypad for opening the garage door. I went and ripped it from the door frame. "Fuck that bitch!" Iroha said in a Russian accent, like the movie we had watched earlier in the week.

About an hour later, we heard a car door slam. We peeked out the closed blinds and watched my wife and the guy load her bags into his car and leave. I sank back onto the couch, relieved that she didn't make a scene for our neighbors. I read through some of the text messages that my wife left before I blocked her number. They were pitiful, begging me not to post them anywhere and stating that I had already cost both of them their jobs. I showed it to Iroha, asking her what she thought I should do? "Wait until she pulls something, then post it," she said.

Iroha snuggled next to me, pulling my arm around her and wrapping her arms around me. She laid her head on my shoulder and squeezed me tightly. When I hugged her back, my hand accidentally cupped her breast. I gave it a squeeze.

"Thank you for today, Honey. I wouldn't have been able to control myself if it hadn't been for what you did for me today," I said, massaging her tit.

She slid her hand to my groin, giving my dick a squeeze, saying, "My offer still stands. You are going to need me more than ever now. Huh?"

"Baby, you shouldn't have to do that for me." I kissed her on the top of her head.

"I'd be doing it for the both of us. What you did to me today was amazing, and I want more. In fact, I don't ever want you to stop doing it with me," she said, stroking my penis erect.

Iroha lowered her head to my lap as she fished my cock out of my pants. Her pigtailed head started bobbing in my lap, and the image of my wife's head flashed through my mind. Iroha's pigtails bounced every time her head took another stroke. She sucked me until I was fully erect. That's when my little girl stood and asked, "Are you ready for me, Daddy?" as she stripped out of her clothes.

I shimmied out of my pants and pulled my shirt over my head. Iroha straddled my lap and pulled my face to her breasts. She held my head as she lowered her onto my cock. I suckled her nipples as my little girl bounced her twat on my dick. She pulled my face to hers, kissing me passionately as we fucked. Our tongues twirled and danced in each other's mouths. Iroha sucked on the tip of my tongue, swirling it with hers like she had been doing on my cock.

I thrust my cock into her, matching her every stroke, causing her to have the beginning tingle of an orgasm. She leaned back as she humped my cock, allowing me to resume sucking her nipples. Iroha wrapped her arms around my head, squeezing my face to her nipple as she came. She swirled and pivoted her pelvis as she ground her cervix on my rigid shaft. I clenched to keep myself from blowing my wad too soon. I even had to grab her hips to keep her from moving lest I lose my load. I held her still until the sensation waned.

Iroha climbed off my lap, turning her back to me. She sat on my lap, wiggling her hips as she tried to get the tip of my cock back into her slippery slit. She placed her feet on the cushion next to my knees as she leaned back against my chest. She began slamming her cunt onto my cock with long, steady strokes. The echos of our bodies clapping together filled the house. I grabbed her titties, squeezing them and pinching her nipples, cascading her into another climax. For a split second, I wondered where she'd learned this.

Her thrust became more sporadic and uncoordinated when she reached back and placed her hands on my shoulder so she could take longer thrusts. She took too long of a stroke on my shaft, causing it to slip out of her tight twat. On her downward thrust, my slickened snake slammed into her starfish. She let out a shriek but kept hammering herself on my cock. I reached around her and slipped two fingers into her cunt, fingering her til she came again. A warm gush of fluid coated my fingers as she climaxed.

In all the excitement, I couldn't hold back, and I blasted a load of cum up her pooper. I continued to thrust my cock into her until I emptied my nuts deep in her dumper. I kept fingering her twat until she couldn't take it anymore, and she pushed my hand away. I grabbed my shirt and tucked it between her ass cheeks as she slid off my cock. I took her hand and led her to the bathroom. I started the shower so we could wash off. I was a bit surprised when Iroha stepped into the shower with me. She took the bar of soap and began to wash my chest, washing her way down to my pubes. Her soapy hands stroked my cock and balls, scrubbing them of any remnant of our anal fuck fest. She smirked at me, asking if she'd done a good job. I nodded in the affirmative. "Good. Now you do me," she said, handing me the soap.

I lathered up my hands and let them wander over her luscious young body. I squeezed her breasts with my soapy, making them slip through my fingers. She giggled as I played with them like a little boy with a new toy. I knelt in front of her, letting my hands trail down her abdomen and finally to her pussy. I lathered up my hands again to wash her bald pussy, slipping my fingers through the folds of her vagina. I hesitated when my fingers neared her pussy hole. She nodded when I peered up at her. I slipped my fingers into her hole, washing it clean of from earlier in the day. She spun around, saying, "Don't forget the backside."

I slid my soapy fingers through her ass cheeks, washing her crack and sphincter. I noticed a bit of blood when I removed my hand.

"It's okay, Dad. It's normal for me after anal,"

"What do you mean, normal?" I asked.

"Dad. I'm a good Catholic girl. I know about the loophole," she giggled.

"Is that why you kept going when it slipped in?"

"Um, hum," she nodded. "I like anal sometimes."

I rinsed the suds off of her body and grabbed a bath towel to wrap her in. She, too, grabbed a towel and dried me off, spending a bit too long on my cock.

We wrapped ourselves in the towels and headed down the hallway to our bedrooms. She paused at her door before entering. "Where am I going to sleep tonight?" she said coyly as she looked through her bedroom door at her busted bed. "You broke my bed, fucking me earlier."

"Wait. I didn't break your bed. You were the one who yanked it apart." I jokingly replied.

"Yeah. Cuz your cock was giving me such a great fuck," she laughed as she took my hand and led me into my bedroom.

You've never been much of an "alpha male", and frankly, you're fine with that. Your childhood is a classic tale: always last picked in school sports, struggled to make many guy friends, called every homophobic slur under the sun just for having basic hygiene. Despite it all, you ended up in an alright place—a quiet and unassuming existence.

Then, you met Kazuha, and your quiet and unassuming existence turned upside down.

"He ordered the chicken sandwich, not the burger," she scolds, dropping the tray of food onto the counter with enough force to send a couple fries flying.

You meekly tug her sleeve. "It's fine, really—"

"Hush, baby." In an instant, she shuts you up with a quick glance with those piercing eyes. "Let momma handle this."

"I'm so sorry, ma'am," the cashier says with his squeaky, prepubescent voice. "I'll have the kitchen put a rush on his chicken sandwich right away. Uh, may I interest you in a free dessert for your troubles?"

Kazuha turns to you, patiently waiting for your answer.

"Uh, I guess a vanilla milkshake wouldn't be so bad—"

"Vanilla milkshake," she repeats, leaning against the counter. "And no cherries. My boyfriend doesn't like cherries."

The cashier gulps, his Adam's apple practically disappearing in sheer terror. "U-uh, yes ma'am. No cherries. Understood."

"Good." Kazuha shoots him one final glare before taking your hand and leading you back to your booth.

"You didn't have to do that," you mutter. "I would've been fine with the burger."

She slinks into the seat across from you with a huff. "It's not what you ordered though. And I know how much you like the chicken sandwich at this place."

You shrug. "The burger isn't that bad."

"Then why didn't you order the burger?" She raises her brow in that "I'm right and you know it" kinda way that you're all too familiar with.

"Well…"

Kazuha reaches across the table and lifts up your chin, forcing you to meet her eyes. "Repeat after me: Thank you for fixing my order, Kazuha. You're the best," she says in a high-pitched voice.

You chuckle softly. "I don't sound like that."

"Say it."

"Thank you for—"

"Do it in the voice."

"Wha—I'm not gonna do t—"

"Do it!"

Her outburst attracts some unwanted attention from other tables, making you shrink in your seat. "Kazuha, people are looking…"

Her lips curl into that smirk—the one that never fails to make your heart do a somersault even after eight months of dating. "Aw, sorry," she brushes her thumb against your bottom lip, "did I embarrass you, baby?"

"W-whatever." You pull away before you do something that'll get both of you kicked out for overt PDA. "Thanks for fixing my order. You're the best," you utter flatly.

Kazuha sits back, arms behind her head and chin held high like those cool kids in old movies. "I know. I'm pretty fuckin' sick."

"And humble too."

The cashier from earlier drops off your food, making an effort to avoid looking Kazuha in the eye. "Here you go, is there anything else I can get you two?" he asks.

Kazuha looks over at you for an answer. "No, thank you," you say. You swear you see him breathe a heavy sigh of relief as he walks away. Poor guy.

"I feel bad," you unwrap your chicken sandwich, the one you ordered initially. "He's probably got enough things going on without us giving him grief."

"Relax babe, we're doing him a favor. Now he knows not to mess up people's orders," she points out, coolly tossing a fry into her mouth.

"Still," you linger on the flakes of salt on her lip for a second too long, "you know how badly service people are treated on the daily. I don't wanna add to that."

"Then don't. I'll do it for you," she smirks.

"Kazuha, that's not funny."

"What, I didn't laugh."

"Yeah, but you're smiling."

"I'm smiling because you're cute."

You bite your tongue, unwilling to give her the satisfaction of a grin. Unknowingly or not, she sets her food to the side and leans forward, eyeing you like a piece of art.

"Ugh, I hate when you do that," you mutter.

"Do what? I'm just lookin' at ya." Her eyes trace over your lips, and you wonder if she'll like the taste of that new chapstick you just bought.

"I'm trying to eat."

"Am I disturbing your eating?" You feel her foot press against your calf, drawing slow lines with the toe of her boot.

Trying to win against Kazuha is a sisyphean task. She does what she wants, and you follow her around like a loyal puppy. Behave well enough, she'll give you a treat—and just like any puppy, you like your treats.

"Not here, at least," you pout. "I haven't had a single thing to eat all day."

"Aww." She gives you one last drag against your leg before settling back into her seat. "Okay, I'll let you eat."

"Thank you."

Even then, you find your foot gently rubbing against hers as you eat. You can act annoyed all you want, but face it: you're completely smitten with Kazuha.

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"Baby?" Kazuha grabs a leather jacket off of the rack and holds it up to her torso. "What do you think?"

"I think," you sigh, "you have way too many leather jackets."

"What's wrong with that? I'm a collector."

"That looks exactly like the one you bought last week." You take a closer look at the oddly familiar looking tag. "I'm pretty sure that is the exact same one."

"Oh." She takes one last look at it before putting it back. "See, this is why I like having you around. I've probably saved, like, a billion dollars thanks to you."

"Whatever," you chuckle, linking your arm with hers. It's just common sense, you think, but the warmth of her compliment is leagues better than being right.

The two of you pass by racks and racks full of the new wave of summer trends. Personally, you've always been a fan of the fall—cardigans, sweaters, the ability to wear jeans without your legs feeling like tinfoil-wrapped burritos. You and summer are just a match made in Hell. Inevitably, it comes around to torment you for three months out of the year and you're forced to scramble for a wardrobe that won't burn you alive.

"See anything you like?" Kazuha asks.

You scan the men's section, grimacing at the typical suspects that plague the shelves—tank tops, cargo shorts, ugly graphic tees with abominations like "summer vibes" written all over them. "Not really."

"You sure?" She grabs a simple black tank top off the rack. "This one seems pretty nice."

You physically restrain yourself from rolling your eyes. Something like that would only look good on her, with her pretty arms that are deceptively strong, and when she flexes, you can see the shadows dance around her biceps, which reminds you of that one time she put you in a chokehold as a joke and you could feel her muscles pushing against your throat, and you were so mesmerized by the feeling that you forgot to fight back, and—

"Baby?" Kazuha shakes you out of your trance. "You okay?" she chuckles.

"I-I'm good." You wipe away the droplet of drool that almost leaked from your lips. "Let's keep looking."

Deeper and deeper through the men's section you go, yet nothing seems to tickle your fancy. Go figure. You knew looking for clothes this time of year would be futile, but Kazuha wanted to hang out and you already said yes before realizing how much of a waste of time this would amount to.

"Ugh, these all suck," you groan.

"Maybe we'd have found something by now if you weren't so picky," Kazuha points out, brow raised at you.

"Not all of us were born to look good in just about anything," you bite back with a cheesy grin. "Some of us have to put effort into looking nice."

"Hey, don't blame me for being sexy." She drapes her arm around your shoulders, and for a split second, you think she's going to put you into another chokehold. So close. "I don't want you overheating just because you're being stubborn, baby."

"I'm not being stubborn, I just—"

You glance over at the women's section and stop at one of the mannequins. It's wearing a simple outfit, fitting for the weather, but what catches your eyes is the skirt—floor length and ruffled, made of a pure white cotton that seems to dance, even on the still mannequin. 

For one reason or another, you can't take your eyes off of it. It wouldn't be too hard to fit into your current wardrobe, and it's a much nicer alternative to the dull beige of all the cargo shorts that seems to infect every corner of the men's options. But, it's just—you're a guy, and Kazuha, well—you already wonder why she even likes you, and—

Kazuha follows your gaze. "Are you getting the hots for the mannequin?" she teases.

"W-what? No, I just—maybe we can find somewhere else to—"

She grips your hand before you have a chance to escape. "Hey, be honest with me." Her voice turns softer, more sincere compared to her usual mischief. "What's going on?"

"Nothing, I—" You peer into her round eyes. They're void of any kind of judgment or disgust, the usual reaction you expect when girls you're interested learn of your 'peculiar tastes'. "I just thought the skirt was pretty. That's all."

"Pretty on me, or pretty on you?"

"Well, of course you'd look pretty in it—"

"Hey." She tilts your chin up, the tip of her thumb pressing your bottom lip. You practically sink into her touch. Never have you felt a presence safer than Kazuha's.

"I… wanna try it on," you admit shyly. "Is that okay?"

She bares her pretty white teeth at you before pressing a soft kiss onto your lips. "Of course you can, baby. You don't need my permission to wear whatever you want."

Heat creeps up your cheeks like lava bubbling to the top of a volcano. "Thanks," you utter, biting back your excitement at the thought of looking pretty.

The second your staring at your reflection in the dressing room mirror, the ruffled skirt in your hands, it all starts to feel a little too real. Your first ever skirt. The thought has crossed your mind a handful of times before, but you never thought you'd actually get to this point. If it weren't for Kazuha and her charming eyes, this moment would just be another figment of your imagination.

You take a deep breath, and you put it on—it fits. Your reflection doesn't look half bad either. The breeze between your legs will take some getting used to, and you'll need to be wary of what color underwear you wear with these, but for now, you're just in awe of how good it looks. How good you look.

You do a little twirl for fun, giggling at the way the dress flows like petals on a blooming flower. Kazuha knocks against the dressing room door. "Did you try it on yet? I wanna see."

"Yeah! Come in."

As soon as Kazuha sees you, her expression drops. In that moment, worry starts to creep into your mind.

Does she not like it?

Does she not like you?

Will she leave just like the rest of them?

All your anxieties are laid to rest as Kazuha envelops you into a tight squeeze. "Holy fuck, my boyfriend is so pretty," she breathes, rocking you back and forth in her arms. You immerse yourself in her warmth, the kind of warmth that steadies your heart and quiets your mind; the kind you want to feel every day until you die.

"Does that mean you like it?" you ask.

"I love it," she says, pecking your lips. "I'm totally buying you every single color they have."

You chuckle at her enthusiasm. "Maybe we can just stick to this one for now? Until I get used to it, at least."

"That's fine with me." Her lips find yours once again, this one a little longer, a little more tender. "It really suits you, baby."

This kiss leaves you wobbly-kneed and blubbering, reduced to a puddle of lovestruck goop in her arms. Her strong, toned arms that you somehow fit perfectly in between.

"Let's hurry up and pay for it so I can take it off you later tonight," she winks, shutting the door behind her and leaving you to feel like the luckiest boy on the planet.

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The two of you kick off your shoes by the front door of your apartment, tossing the shopping bags haphazardly on your coffee table. Those will be for future you to deal with; right now, your feet are dead from all the walking and your body is in desperate need of a bed to collapse on.

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon," Kazuha urges, dragging you to your bedroom. In there, she collapses back onto your bed, arms above her head and her eyes staring you down like a hawk to a little mouse. "Hurry up and take me, pretty boy."

"O-oh." You gulp. "You mean, like, right now? Um—"

"What's that?" Kazuha asks, a smirk growing on her lips. On your usually tidy desk, a small pile of crumpled tissues sits next to your closed laptop, and the memory of what you did last night hits you all at once.

"W-wait, it's not what it looks like—!"

"You little freak!" Before you have a chance to explain yourself, Kazuha jumps to her feet, grabbing at your laptop with the cunning of a fox. "Ooh, let's see what kind of perversions you were watching!"

"Kazuha, don't—"

She flips open your laptop, and on the screen lies a still of the last scene you had watched—a boy with cerebral palsy and his grandma overlooking the edge of a mountain.

"What?" Kazuha asks. "Where's the porn?"

"I wasn't watching porn," you sigh in embarrassment, "I was watching a movie."

She gasps. "An adult movie?!"

"No!" 

Kazuha falls into a fit of giggles. Real mature of her.

"I was watching a… sad movie." You point at the pile of tissues. "I was crying…"

"Aw." She holds your head to her chest, kissing the top of your scalp. "Sorry, I didn't mean to make of fun of you for crying."

"It's fine." It's impossible to be upset with her when she feels this nice.

"Was it good? Can I watch it with you?"

"You want to? What about the whole, um, 'taking you' thing?"

She chuckles softly. "Maybe some other time. Walking around all day has got me feeling lazy." Kazuha crawls into your bed, cozying up under your covers. "C'mon, I wanna watch!"

You relent, following her onto your bed. "I might cry again."

"That's okay," she wraps you in her embrace, "mama's here."

You drag the little red dot all the way to the beginning and hit play, safe and sound in her arms.

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"Grandma?" Chunhe utters, cradling the box of his beloved cat's ashes in his arms.

"Hmm?" she replies.

"After you take me to school, I'll buy you a meal at the cafeteria."

His grandma smiles at him. "All right."

"And then," Chunhe continues, "Buy yourself a train ticket and go wherever you want. Go look around. Go have some fun. Let me walk the rest of my path my way. All right?"

His words may be slow or clumsy, but his sincerity cuts through like the sharpest blade, and his grandma knows this. No more is Chunhe the helpless little boy he once was; now, he stands tall against the prejudice that the world throws at him.

Even after knowing how it ends, it doesn't get easier the second time around.

"There, there," Kazuha coos, gently brushing your head. "It's okay, baby."

"Sorry," you sniffle, "It's just—"

"I know."

She holds you to her chest, letting you sob your little heart out for what feels like forever. For every tear that falls, Kazuha is there with a brush of her thumb or a comforting kiss to pick up all the broken pieces that the movie left you in.

It feels unfair, undeserved, you think, to know such tenderness like it's home. In the original script, the roles would be reversed—Kazuha sobbing into your arms while you comfort her. 

But they aren't. And even in this tenderness that you cherish so deeply, inklings of insecurities that you've long held still manage to seep through.

"Can I ask you something?" you say, wiping away at the last of your tears.

"What is it, baby?"

You breathe, slowly. "Why do you… why do you like me?"

She leans into you, the soft weight of her cheek resting on your head. "Hmm… Well, other guys just suck," Kazuha answers simply.

"Don't you ever wish I was more, uh, 'manlier' or something?"

"Hell no," she grimaces. "Those kinds of guys are the worst. I say one funny thing and they're all like 'Damn, your energy is different, for real!' and it's so annoying! I just have a personality!"

Kazuha holds you tighter, and it becomes clear just how much she wants you over any other guy. "Besides, I like my boys on the softer side." She kisses your damp cheek. "It means they have a soul."

Ryujin came up onto her knees with both hands already in the air while Yunjin got to the whistle first, two fingers jammed in her mouth as the pair of them screamed loud enough to turn a sand pit into the back end of an encore while Ryujin clapped with her whole arms.

"That," Yunjin shouted, throwing both arms wide enough to claim broadcast rights, "was CINEMA."

Ryujin pressed a hand to her chest and bowed her head. "Director's cut with unpaid staff overtime."

They kept lobbing it back and forth because they'd been at it all night, getting loud and finding each other across the gap between two groups before silently agreeing the rest of us were just the audience at a music-show prerecording who should clap when prompted, so Giselle dipped her chin to take the praise.

But Chaeryeong scrunched her whole face up and chewed her lip while replaying the story, desperately hunting for the part where it became a romance.

"But after," she pressed, leaning in. "Was there - a moment?"

Giselle gave her one slow blink.

"I gave him our manager's contact."

Chaeryeong slumped forward into Sunwoo's side. Sunwoo doubled over and pushed his face into her shoulder to muffle it, one arm hauling her close. He kissed the top of her head between laughs. She let him reel her in, scowling into his collarbone.

Ningning reached over and smacked Giselle's palm without lifting her eyes off her marshmallow. "Queen." She rotated the skewer with great seriousness.

Winter had spent the whole story at war with a marshmallow. I'd watched it sideways the entire time. The marshmallow slid off the skewer. Winter pushed it back on. It caught fire. Winter blew it out. It slumped off the stick into the coals. She'd lost three of them this way. She came up from the latest drop with her cheeks stuffed full of sugar, holding the empty skewer out.

"Wait." Winter looked from Giselle to Ningning, chewing fast now that the group had apparently moved on. "What happened?"

"I'll tell you later." Ningning reached over and turned Winter's skewer away from the fire before it could claim a fourth victim.

Winter swallowed with visible effort. "But I was here! I only looked away because it was burning."

"It's over, unnie. Just eat the evidence."

"That doesn't count." Winter waved the empty skewer at Ningning, then at the coals. "It was on fire. I fixed it."

Over at the edge of the blanket, Karina smiled at the marshmallow disaster until Giselle flicked her a look and Karina met it, both their smiles dropping as they stared flat at each other and then coming right back up for the group, so even if I had no idea what actually happened in the unedited version of Giselle's night, I'd lay bets her leader already had the full report.

I stood behind Yeji, my thumbs working the knot at the top of her spine, watching the firelight hit her face. I didn't plan on letting any of this go.

***

"Okay, we need a photo."

Chaeryeong recovered from her grief and popped up on her knees. "We HAVE to. Everyone's here, everyone looks good, the fire's perfect. Lia-ya, you have your phone."

Lia picked up her phone from the sand.

"Okay, group shot." Lia woke the screen, the blue light washing up over her face. "Hold on. I'll prop it. The timer's in here somewhere."

She frowned at the phone as her thumb moved across two screens and the frown got worse.

"Why do they move this every update," Lia grumbled. "There's a guy in California getting promoted for ruining eomeoni photo time." She tilted the phone, then tilted her head without taking her eyes off the screen. "Minho-oppa, come help me with this?"

I blinked, mostly because there were over a dozen people around this fire and half of them could've set a phone timer in their sleep while Yuna had probably done a fancam tutorial on it while eating gimbap in a van, but before I could point any of this out Yeji's hand came down flat on my thigh and shoved.

"Go help her." Yeji shoved my thigh again. "You're standing there doing nothing."

I went while Ryujin watched with filth tucked behind her grin, but since Lia was already patting the sand beside her I let Ryujin's comment wait and crouched next to her where I could see her phone sitting open on the home screen with no camera app in sight.

"I'm always the one taking the pictures," Lia muttered, turning the phone sideways, then upside down, then back again. "I never actually have to set the timer to be in the shot, so you hold it landscape, right, and then..."

"Lia."

"...and then the little icon, it used to be on the left..."

"Lia."

She stopped and leaned in close enough that the firelight left most of her face dark.

"I saw what happened on the pool deck." Lia whispered.

My jaw locked as I stared at the side of her head, remembering how days ago I'd heard her mention footage and how I'd carried that panic through every meal and every laugh and every time Yeji touched me in front of people since one video could turn this beach into Dispatch bait before breakfast.

"I know," I said quietly. "I know there's a video."

Her eyebrows climbed.

"Oh?" Lia's fingers rubbed the edge of the phone case.

I kept my mouth shut while she kept looking at me until she finally shrugged.

"Well, it's gone." Her mouth tipped up at the corner. "Some things you watch once and let go."

I sat there with my hands empty and made myself nod because some things didn't need saying, and she watched the nod and plucked the phone back before her thumb tapped the screen and the camera opened with the timer in the center.

"Good luck figuring it out!" Lia gave my shoulder a suspiciously fake pat before moving back towards the assembled group.

She barely made it into the fray before Yuna's arm shot out of the hoodie to hook her round the waist while Chaeryeong grabbed her sleeve from the other side, making Lia stumble into the knot of her own members with a surprised laugh.

I stood up with the phone and let my shoulders drop along with my jaw unclenching.

I wedged the phone into the neck of an empty soju bottle stuck in the sand, pointed it at everyone, and started herding a dozen drunk bodies into one frame.

Everyone sorted themselves out fast. Yeji and Ryujin folded into each other in the middle, Ryujin's arm slung heavy over Yeji's shoulders and Yeji's hand fisted in the back of Ryujin's sleeveless hoodie. Chaeryeong tucked under Sunwoo's arm with her palm flat on his chest, and he turned his whole body toward her. Lia let Minjun pull her back against him at the edge of the shot, his chin at her temple, both of them grinning.

aespa clumped into their own corner. Karina sat low and central. Winter dropped in right beside her, using the borrowed time to cram a whole s'more into her mouth. The camera was about to catch their leader next to a girl with both cheeks stuffed with marshmallow. Giselle and Ningning boxed them in, still bickering, Ningning's hands up, Giselle's eyebrow up higher.

Yunjin loomed at the back, iced americano held high, mouth already open to yell.

"Okay. Timer, ten seconds." I hit it and jogged into the gap they'd left me at Yeji's side.

She turned into me before I'd even stopped moving, bringing an arm around the back of my neck to curl her fingers into my hair and drag me down to her height. While keeping her other arm locked round Ryujin's waist, she let her thumb drag slowly along the cord behind my ear.

"Smile!" Chaeryeong shrieked.

FLASH.

The flash blew the circle white. Everybody got caught mid-laugh, mid-yell, mid-chew. Then the dark came back and everyone broke formation to fight over the phone and see who looked insane.

I let them swarm the screen. I already had the only detail I actually cared about anyway, just knowing I finally made the frame.

***

Winter had been picking at her guitar on and off for the last hour, half-songs and practice-room fragments, her small idol hands refusing to rest even on vacation. The strings were a little out, because borrowed beach guitars are instruments in the same sense convenience-store triangle kimbap is dinner. Nobody asked her to play, but she kept doing it anyway under everyone else's noise.

Yunjin recognized it first. She'd flopped down next to Winter with her americano, and at one chord change her head snapped up.

"Wait!" Yunjin grabbed Winter's forearm and stopped the strings. "Wait, wait. Minjeongie, is that the one we used to do? In the dorm? The ABBA one?"

Winter looked down at her own hands, then back at Yunjin. "... I just put my fingers where they used to go."

"Oh my gosh!" Yunjin bounced up onto her knees so fast her americano sloshed. "We sang this every night for a YEAR. Play it - play it properly, do the thing."

Winter blinked once, accepted this as a reasonable assignment, and set the guitar against her stomach. Her fingers found the chords properly, and the noodling became an actual song.

I knew it the second she played it properly. Everyone in their twenties knew it. The song your mother played in the car on the way back from Sokcho, the one you pretended not to know until the chorus betrayed you. A summer song for people already packing their bags.

For the last night of a trip nobody wanted to end, it was attempted murder with guitar accompaniment. Half the people around this fire were getting on a plane in the morning.

And so we sang.

Giselle came in first on the vocal, of course she did, because she was the only one of us who'd grown up with the English version on the radio. About a line in, born menace that she was, she swapped a word.

"The feeling right," she sang, then glanced sideways at the rest of us. "The Jeju night."

She did it under her breath the first time, testing the crime. Everyone caught it.

"The Jeju night," she repeated, louder, because nobody had stopped her.

"It works!" Giselle lifted one hand against the groans, unrepentant, and kept going.

Yunjin pointed at her across the fire, found her sworn enemy, and took a lower harmony just to refuse matching Giselle. The two of them started a rap-beef inside a campfire singalong. Ningning heard the crime in progress and grinned into her marshmallow.

And then Yunjin pointed at me.

"STUDIO GUY." Yunjin slapped a hand to her chest. "Studio monitor guy is just STANDING there. He does this for a LIVING. Get up here, get up, you don't get to lurk."

"I'm okay -"

"Ning. Get him a mic."

Ningning picked one of Winter's blackened marshmallow corpses off the skewer and lobbed it at me underhand. I caught the charred thing reflexively. She beamed and gave me an enthusiastic thumbs up.

I looked to Yeji for an exit. She was the one person here with the authority to call them off, and she looked back up at me from the sand, considered my dignity, then fed it to the gulls.

"You're good at singing." Yeji gave me the smallest smile, which was crueler than mockery. "Go sing for us."

She put her hand on the small of my back and pushed, which was how I ended up on my feet at a bonfire holding a burnt marshmallow for a microphone while a member of LE SSERAFIM conducted me with both hands and a cup of iced coffee.

After getting rid of me, Yeji immediately crossed to the other blanket and dropped down between her girls. Yuna immediately burrowed into her side with her head straight to Yeji's shoulder, and Ryujin leaned in from the other side to sit shoulder to shoulder so Yeji could sit between the two of them with an arm around each and let herself be held.

I came in on the song low and careful while feeling for the tune under Winter's chords before pushing steadier, and the circle threw me a small holler that made me feel ridiculous and warm right up until they realized I wasn't gonna run and let me carry the lead so they could shriek behind me.

"I can still recall," I sang, and the fire cracked low between us. "Our last summer."

Halfway through the second verse, this trip started lining itself up behind the melody.

I looked around the fire.

"But underneath we had a fear of flying," I sang.

"Of getting old," the circle answered, quieter now. "A fear of slowly dying."

Nobody touched that one.

Yeji and Ryujin sat pressed together on the blanket, a far cry from last night when I'd sat in the dark and listened to them scream at each other through the walls of the villa, because now Ryujin kept her arm slung heavy over Yeji's shoulders while Yeji kept her fingers twisted into the fabric of Ryujin's shirt.

The chorus came around so I lifted the marshmallow like a trainee I once was.

"I can still recall our last summer," I sang.

Everyone came in after me. "I still see it all."

My eyes found Yuna sitting half-swallowed by her hoodie and resting her cheek against Yeji's shoulder as she barely sang along, looking nothing like two days ago at the pool when she'd strutted straight at me in that lethal bikini, since right now she just had one hand fisted in Yeji's sleeve with her eyelids drooping on "I still see it all."

"Our last summer," I sang.

"MORNING SAMGYEOP," Yunjin bellowed suddenly, mangling some breakfast lyric into a pork-belly disaster that fit the melody exactly nowhere. Ryujin lost it and folded sideways off Yeji laughing. Giselle put her face in her hands. For one glorious second we were all eighteen, underslept, and too loud on a beach.

I pulled the song back before Yunjin could invent a second pork product.

"Living for the day," I sang, and nobody improved on it.

"Worries far away."

The jokes stopped. We sang it straight because we'd been doing exactly that for three days, and morning had plane tickets.

I kept going around the fire.

Karina sat back from the fire with a soft smile, sweating and loud in the sand, and I didn't have to wonder what lived underneath her pristine idol act anymore because two nights ago I'd watched her mascara smear down her cheeks while she begged into a couch cushion with my dick buried deep inside her.

Lia lifted her chin at me across the fire before turning back to whatever Minjun was murmuring into her ear, having deleted the evidence of my pool-deck disaster without asking for a single thing in return. Next to her, Chaeryeong snuggled under Sunwoo's arm. She'd spent the whole trip digging for a grand romance in everyone else's mess, but right now she just held her boyfriend's hand and leaned against him, proving that even among a group of catastrophically horny idols, things could still be simple.

The song tipped past its middle, right where the second vocal comes in and lets the woman answer.

Yuna picked her head up off Yeji's shoulder.

"Unnie," she started, lifting her head. "You should be up there. Singing with your boyfriend."

Yeji immediately went straight. "He's not my boyf -"

"Bitch, please." Ryujin cut her off, got two hands on Yeji's shoulder, braced one foot in the sand, and shoved, launching Yeji up off the blanket with a grunt of pure exertion. "For fuck's sake, Yeddeong, let yourself be happy for ONCE in your life."

Yeji stumbled across the sand on Ryujin's shove and fetched up against me with both hands flat against my chest.

She looked up at me.

I looked down at her with a burnt marshmallow in my hand and zero plan in my head, so I just shrugged at her. Her shoulders dropped first and then her mouth loosened as she surrendered to the public humiliation of sincerity.

I held the marshmallow up between us.

She huffed through her nose, put her hand over mine around the stupid charred thing, and came in on the woman's verse.

The circle lost its mind when the next verse gave them a name to ruin.

"And now you're on Music Bank," Giselle sang, and slapped her own knee like she'd solved art.

"The solo stan," Ryujin threw in.

"The Instagram," Ningning added, too fast and delighted with herself.

Yunjin planted one hand over her heart and belted, "And your name is Hanni," with full operatic vibrato.

Hanni wasn't at this bonfire. Nobody cared.

Then somebody hollered "YEJI," and the whole circle howled.

Yeji sang through all of it, the goofy version and the names and the noise. Then she hit the next line and quit joking.

"Yet you're the hero of my dreams," she sang, looking right at me. After the week we'd had, after everything I knew now, I had to tighten my grip on that stupid marshmallow stick to keep my hand steady.

Off to the side, Chaeryeong made a small wet sound and pressed her fingers to her mouth, openly swooning, and for once not one single person teased her for it.

I stopped looking around after that. Because I had her hand over mine and her eyes on my face, and when the chorus came back around she rasped "our last summer" like it cost her pride, which it probably did, but she was here and I was here so I just sang the rest to the actual girl in my arms instead of some future version I was already mourning like an idiot.

Behind us, the best parts kept happening in the corners. Karina drifted over to Winter mid-chorus, folded down behind her, wrapped both arms around her from the back, and hooked her chin over Winter's shoulder. She rocked them slowly, half lullaby and half hostage situation. Winter squirmed on principle, then gave up and let it happen, still chewing. By the last chorus Karina had her eyes shut, cheek tucked into Winter's hair, singing quietly to her because tomorrow was gonna be hard enough. Ningning sang the whole thing a quarter-tone flat and gave zero fucks. Yunjin held the final note about four bars longer than anyone else, fist in the air, americano sloshing, the loudest person on the beach because she was the only one who didn't know what the song meant to the rest of us.

I wanted to remember it exactly like this, ridiculous marshmallow and all.

The song had been mocking us from bar one. Fair play.

***

The fire burned down to glowing coals after the song, and everyone moved slower around them. Lia suggested we lie back and look up, making stargazing sound formal and scheduled. Once the flames dropped, the sky came out properly, the whole messy spill of them over the black water. A dozen people lay on their backs in the sand, drunk and full, picking out the two constellations anybody knew and arguing softly about the rest.

I lay there with my hands behind my head feeling more settled than I'd been in years, having let Yeji wander off a few minutes ago when she waved her phone and mumbled something about taking photos of the sky, but when I turned my head expecting to find her somewhere nearby in the dark I got only sand and Ryujin's knee.

I came up on my elbows.

I checked the blanket and the fire and the loose scatter of bodies without finding her.

Then I scanned the dark.

A camera flash popped sharp and bright far past the edge of our firelight where the sand gave way to black volcanic rock.

The sudden white glare washed over the old basalt columns, catching a solitary figure standing at the top of the cliff with a phone held up to the empty sky.

"Minho."

Ryujin had appeared at my shoulder out of nowhere and crouched low next to me with her eyes already up on the cliff.

"You really gonna let her stand up there and freeze to death by herself?" she said.

"Right," I said, getting to my feet.

I took one step toward the rocks before her hand closed around my forearm and stopped me hard.

I looked down to find Ryujin keeping her eyes on Yeji with her nails digging into my skin.

"She let you all the way in." Ryujin kept her grip on my arm. "You know how rare that is for her?"

Her fingers tightened.

"Hurt her, and I'll fucking kill you. I mean it."

She let me go and returned to the sand before I could answer, dropping down with the others to put her hands behind her head and look up at the stars.

I turned toward the cliff and the wind off the water and Yeji standing alone at the top of it, and started walking.

Intro | Masterlist | Series Index Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Minutes ago, she'd waved her phone at the massive bonfire circle, claiming she needed pristine starlight shots to make up for her Bubble radio silence.

Every MIDZY knew she was the group's relentless photo spammer on Bubble, but she hadn't posted a single thing since they landed in Jeju. Her camera roll was basically useless right now. The golden hour sunset photos from two days ago were gorgeous, except Minho had taken them, and her face in every shot was a fucking liability.

So the Bubble update was a pretty bulletproof excuse. Nobody questioned content creation.

They'd pushed Minho to sing, then shoved her until she joined him, and the moment his voice slid effortlessly with hers, her chest dragged tight. It sounded too good, too right. She couldn't even finish the song before the panic hit her throat.

I want this. I just want to sit in the fucking sand and sing dumb songs with him for the rest of my life.

That drove her straight out of the firelight. Since when did she want anything but winning that badly?

The sky out here was nice and clear, even if the bonfire smoke kept drifting in ugly grey patches across the beach, and her phone camera had a night mode that was supposed to make this look professional. She just needed ONE clean shot to prove her alibi before Yuna started posing with Winter's failed s'mores, or Ryujin heaved an entire log into the flames just to make a spark explosion. She'd been on dangerous levels of watch this energy all night because Yunjin kept laughing.

Standing near the edge of the basalt drop, Yeji locked her shoulders back and kept her chin high. Her default response to panic - well, to everything, really - was to just brace like she was waiting for a spotlight. The Pacific beat itself white against the lava blocks below. The racer back crop top had been more than fine near the fire, but out here, the wind slid under the hem and spiked goosebumps along her ribs. She ignored the cold, tilting her head awkwardly backward to shove the phone high into the dark, and tapped the moon icon on the screen.

The first photo came out blurry.

"Ah, jinjja," she muttered. Seriously?

She wiped the lens against the cleanest part of her crop top and tried again. The second shot caught a smear of orange from the bonfire, and the third turned the stars into little white scratches like dust on a mirror. On the next try, the wind shoved her hair across her face right as the shutter opened.

Fucking amateur.

Hwang Yeji didn't do amateur. Hwang Yeji trained mistakes out of her body before debut.

Shoving the loose hair behind her ear, her fingers brushed the collar of the crop top. Her hand stopped there against her neck, pressing flat over the tender, swollen mark Minho had sucked into the side of her throat that morning.

They’d ended up on the living room couch under the duvet after absolutely demolishing their bedroom last night. Waking up in the morning light, she'd simply pulled her panties aside, guided him back inside her, too tired for a real round but needing him stretching her out. He’d slid in slow, steadying her hips with one hand while his thumb held firm against her clit to keep her quiet. Every time she rolled her hips, she had to bite his arm and let him suck her throat muffle-tight so she wouldn't make a sound as he filled her up deep, taking the greedy, shameless thrill of his hot load inside her while her members made matcha steps away.

They’d been dead quiet. He'd kept her locked down under the blanket, so they’d gotten away with it. Sure, Ryujin had aggressively slammed the fridge door twice, Lia had kicked the leg of the couch on her way to the sink, Chaeryeong had dropped three whole strawberries into the matcha, and Yuna had walked in, seen the couch, walked right back out, then returned with a much louder "Good morning!" before asking, "Unnie, are you cold?" while staring directly at the duvet until Yeji nearly bit through Minho's arm, but nobody had said a word. They DEFINITELY hadn't suspected a thing.

Focus.

She lowered the phone, annoyed with herself, then raised it again.

Was it ever just the sex?

She waited for the usual shrug to settle into her shoulders, but her skin stayed cold. The phone pulsed in and out of focus, searching and searching stars it couldn't understand, and for a split second the black screen reflected her own face back at her. Wind-raw cheeks and hair in her mouth.

She turned the screen away.

Just take the fucking picture, Hwang Yeji.

The camera struggled to find light. The screen dissolved into noisy gray static, just like that memory from Practice Room B, five years ago.

Cold linoleum pressed against her cheek. The rough edges of the crumpled vocal evaluation sheet bit into her fist. The red D on the paper glared back at her until her head spun.

When Minho had shoved the door open looking for an empty mirror to drill choreo, she hated him for catching her. Except he'd skipped the bullshit trainee platitudes, dropping his bag to sit close enough for their shoulders to touch, and rested his warm hand on the back of her neck to steady her.

She'd sobbed into his shoulder and whispered for him to stay, and minutes later they were fucking on the scuffed floor as she begged him to keep the mess inside so she wouldn't get it on her clothes.

From that night on, it became the fix. Every time the schedule choked her out, every time the pressure made her head hurt, she dragged him into locked vocal booths, empty dorms, and after he quit, his modest apartment in Seongnae-dong, minutes away from the JYP building. Obviously, she loved the sex. It didn't help that he had a stupidly good cock and knew exactly how to pound her pussy until her head shut up.

She also taught him to stop counting steps, because he'd taught her how to stay.

Just sex. Right.

The phone slipped a little in her freezing fingers. Down the beach, Yuna's loud laugh rattled through a high-pitched scream. She should probably go back before someone set a sleeve on fire on the beach.

She held her ground on the rock.

She dragged her thumb down to kill the exposure, forcing the digital sky pitch black until the stars sharpened into clean white points.

The second the stage lights died at her debut showcase, her eyes swept the aisle seats in rows six and seven. She caught nothing but a bulky staff camera and someone's eomma waving a lightstick.

Not him.

Fine. He'd quit. People quit. She didn't.

After that, there'd been more seats to search. Nine days after debut, they broke the industry record for the fastest girl group win. The M Countdown trophy hit her hands, her fingers shaking so badly she almost dropped the acrylic while floor directors shoved them toward their encore marks. DALLA DALLA kept winning. ICY kept winning. By winter, rookie awards had piled up until managers were telling her to switch arms before broadcasts caught her trembling under the bouquets and gold edges.

And every single time the confetti cannons fired, her chin snapped up. Scanning the VIP pits. The sponsor tables. The camera risers. The suffocating crush of staff clogging the wings.

Not him.

Then WANNABE blew up so hard everybody knew the shoulder move. Their practice room mirrors fogged from sweat, Ryujin's shoulders became everyone's business, and Yeji kept smiling through encore stages with tape biting under her costume because being the top girl group of their generation meant they didn't get to look tired. LOCO took them higher. Billboard screenshots appeared in the group chat at insane hours, while hotel curtains opened in foreign cities she only saw through van windows and stage entrances.

She looked there, too. Raking the balcony tiers. Hunting through the catwalks. Squinting past the lighting desks. Staring dead into the absolute black drop past the pyrotechnics.

Not him.

And the bigger the numbers got, the faster the public took their cut, until less and less of her actually belonged to her. CHECKMATE made them million-sellers while everyone argued about SNEAKERS. CHESHIRE sold anyway, but they never performed it after the initial promotions because it'd taken a toll on their vocal cords. CAKE sold anyway, but the comment sections still chewed through them, and when Lia finally stepped back, Yeji read the statement once, blamed herself by the second line, and drove her heels into the next rehearsal floor until the junior staff stopped talking. When the label screamed or the internet turned, she'd gone numb and fixed it. Sang harder. Danced harder.

The world kept handing her proof that she'd made it, but her eyes kept checking the room anyway.

Not him.

Her thumb dragged too far across the screen, and KakaoTalk opened instead of the camera roll.

Of course it did.

His name sat at the top of the list because she'd sent him a photo of Chaeryeong's terrible grilled abalone earlier, which was normal. Sharing evidence of food crimes was normal. Keeping the thread open for no reason was also normal if nobody asked.

Having him pinned was normal too. She had needs. He always answered.

A week ago, in the dorm, she'd lain on her bed with her phone face down on her stomach and typed

Yeji: come to Jeju with me 🖤

before her ears burned up and she deleted it so fast her nails slipped on the glass. The black heart had been hers for so long that MIDZY treated it like official branding, which was annoying because Minho had picked it first, years ago when she'd refused to use red hearts because they looked needy. After one practice where she'd terrorized Lia for blaming a missed count on a slippery floor, he'd texted

Minho: scary girl 🖤

like that was a compliment. When she'd demanded to know why black, he'd said,

Minho: because it's your favorite color

Which, unfortunately, was true.

How the fuck did he know that, anyway?

Then he'd added that red looked too harmless for a girl who smiled like she was about to win a knife fight.

She'd told him to shut up.

Then she'd used it once. Fans loved it. The company noticed. The stupid thing became hers.

Which meant she could send it to millions of strangers after a selfie, but not to him. Not when he knew exactly where it came from. Also, who the fuck sends hearts to their fuck buddy? Too much. Weird. Unnecessary. They weren't that.

She'd tried again the day before they went.

Yeji: I'm going to Jeju with the girls tomorrow. Yeji: Five days. Minho: oh Minho: that's a long time Yeji: We haven't fucked in three weeks. Minho: yeah Minho: i know Minho: do you want me there? Yeji: Bring sunscreen. Minho: ok Minho: what flight should i take? Yeji: Figure it out. Yeji: There's a 21:40 from Gimpo after you get off work. Yeji: I'll ask manager-nim to pick you up. Yeji: Aewol Beach Resort. We're renting a villa.

She let her hand drop to the mattress, ready to lock the screen and be done with it. Except not even a second later, she pulled the phone back up.

Yeji: Text me when you land, ok?

She tossed the device face down on the sheets and rolled onto her side, pressing the back of her hand against her mouth until her jaw stopped aching. He'd taken the demand at face value, accepting five days in Jeju alongside her members - even though he'd never met them properly since the Busan calamity - as a given and jumping straight to flight logistics, leaving her alone with a stomach churning so hard she thought she might puke.

The next evening, after his shift, he got on a plane anyway, still wearing his blue dress shirt.

He showed up with a single backpack and tired eyes, and the new bottle of sunscreen was shoved right into a side mesh pocket so she could see the label. He never actually used it, though. Yesterday, Yuna had snatched the bottle first and rubbed it all over Yeji's shoulders on the beach with both hands, frantic enough to leave white streaks along her collarbone.

Yah, that was weird.

She stared at the old Kakao messages until the screen drifted into gray, and the moment her reflection rose over his name, she clicked the lock button and turned her thumb back to the camera app. She only needed one clean photo. One aesthetic shot to prove her fake Bubble alibi, so she could walk back to the fire and pretend everything was fine.

She lifted the phone and held her breath during the three-second countdown of the lens shutter.

Fuck, still blurry.

Her hands had jumped before the first sound of footsteps even hit the basalt path behind her.

She stared out at the ocean, though her rigid shoulders finally dropped. She slid the phone into her back pocket and stepped straight to the edge of the black columns. The stars burned bright and stubborn over the Pacific. Still unsparkling. Still useless.

***

[MINHO'S POV]

The bonfire had burned down to a low orange flicker on the beach behind me, leaving the wind to drag the last sounds of laughter away until the ocean swallowed the rest of the night.

Yeji had slipped away from the fire a while ago. Ryujin had noticed first, of course. She'd eventually caught my eye across the sand, giving me a look that casually promised murder before jerking her chin out toward the dark.

I found Yeji standing near the edge of the black lava columns in just that thin crop top, her shoulders tight against the cold as the coastal wind whipped across her bare arms. The basalt dropped away in broken steps beneath her sneakers, tidewater flashing white between the cracks below. A fall from this height would break bones. I kept my eyes off the freezing tide sliding into the black pockets to keep my balance steady.

I stopped a step behind her and dropped my hoodie over her shoulders to cut the chill. Without turning to check who it was, she smoothly slid her arms backward into the sleeves while I guided the heavy fabric down. She braided her arms across her middle and stared down the sharp drop beyond her sneakers, looking tiny against the Pacific now that she was swallowed by the oversized fleece. Her hair blew loose across her cheek under the Jeju stars.

We just stood there while the wind and the tide crashed below us, until her breathing finally slowed down.

"You're hovering," she murmured, barely loud enough to clear the surf. She threw a familiar dry glare at the Pacific under her feet.

"I'm making sure you don't fall off a cliff."

She stared straight out at the drop. "You wouldn't even see me hit. The ocean is pitch black, idiot."

"Wasn't looking at the water."

She let out a short breath that caught somewhere near a laugh, dropping her chin into the collar of the hoodie. "That was terrible."

"Worked, though."

Her cheek shifted. She was hiding a smile.

The way she stood now, with her chin tucked, arms crossed tight, dragged me back to all the post-evaluation nights in the mirror-lined JYP studio. Years ago, sure. But Yeji never stood still without a fight.

I stepped up right beside her on the uneven rock. The starlight caught a silver edge along her damp lashes.

"You okay?" I asked quietly.

Her shoulders dropped. "No." She turned her attention back to the black water. "But I want to be."

That worked for me.

I dropped my hand, letting my knuckles rest lightly against the back of hers to press my warm skin over her freezing joints. It was small enough for her to brush off as an accident. Her fingers twitched against mine. I braced for her to pull away, but instead, her hand turned under mine. Her palm opened upward, and our fingers slid together, catching perfectly like we'd been doing this for years instead of just since the day before on the beach.

That grip dragged me straight back to the basement studios from our first summer. Dead AC, squeaking sneakers on scuffed laminate, and Yeji hating early partner drills with her whole face. She despised holding hands with anyone. She claimed it ruined her timing, snapping at me that my hold was too loose, then too tight, then just generally annoying. But before long, she could grab my hand blind on cue while staring dead ahead into the mirror.

She squeezed my fingers once.

I dragged my thumb slowly over the sharp ridge of her knuckle in response.

"Remember the blue room?" I asked her.

Her eyes stayed anchored on the violent surf, but the tense line of her mouth softened up. "The one with the blown-out speaker?"

"And the aircon making that awful dying sound in the corner."

"You swore it was humming in B-flat."

"It definitely was."

"It was a C, you deaf bastard."

"It was B-flat," I said. "You were just mad I could hear it."

She let out a small scoffing breath, shaking her head. "You were miserable in there."

"You kept bitching at me to fix the speaker."

"You were the only one tall enough to reach the plug!"

"Being tall didn't make me your personal fucking handyman, Yeji."

"You tried anyway."

"I was trying to impress you so you'd stop yelling at me."

She finally looked at me, her sharp jaw cutting across the sky.

"You were?"

The stiff line of her mouth just vanished. "You were scary. Of course I was trying to impress you."

"I was focused," she argued, squaring her shoulders. "Not scary."

"You made that poor trainee cry because she missed the pre-chorus."

"She missed it six fucking times in a row, Minho."

"Scary."

"She needed the timing!"

"See?"

She laughed brightly, the sound whipping away into the wind.

The laugh faded into the rush of the ocean below us. Yeji looked back up at the sky, phone forgotten in her pocket, my hoodie hanging off one shoulder where the wind kept attacking it.

"You were supposed to be there," she said.

For one dumb second, my brain stayed in the blue room.

"In the studio?"

"No." Her fingers tightened around mine. "After. All of it. Debut showcase, first music show win, rookie awards, first tour. Rows six and seven at showcase. Back wall during music shows. Camera pits. The wings at award shows. Hotels. Airports. All the places you had no reason to be."

The surf hit the black rock below us hard enough to spray cold mist through the cracks. She watched the water fall back into the dark and kept her jaw locked.

"I looked for you every time," she said. "So pathetic, right? I would finish a stage, smile at the camera, bow to the staff, do all the shit I was supposed to do, and then my eyes would go searching before I could stop myself. Not him. Not him. Not him."

I couldn't move even if I'd wanted to. She had her hand locked around mine so hard my knuckles had gone pale.

"Yeji -"

"Don't." She lifted our joined hands ever so slightly, and the apology my mouth had started reaching for died right there. "If you say sorry, then I have to say it wasn't your fault. And it wasn't. So then where does it go?"

I looked down at our hands and had no answer worth giving her.

"I don't know," I said.

"Exactly." She swallowed and turned her face back to the sky. "You didn't do anything wrong. I didn't do anything wrong. You left before it killed you. I stayed because you sat on that floor with me until I could. Then I debuted, and everyone kept telling me I won."

Her thumb dragged once across my knuckle, then stopped.

"I did win," she continued. "I worked for it. My members earned it. I know that. But you were there first, before people said I was the leader, before stages, before anyone called me 'JYP's secret weapon' or whatever and meant it in public. You saw me on the floor with a D grade and talked to me like the paper was unqualified. Not me."

The old practice room came back too fast: scuffed linoleum, fluorescent glare, the red letter crushed in her fist, her shoulders shaking under my palm.

"You were never unqualified," I stated simply.

"I know that now." She wiped under one eye with the sleeve of my hoodie, hard enough to leave the skin flushed. "I didn't know it then. I thought every mistake was proof. Then you came in and acted like failing one evaluation was the dumbest reason in the world to quit, and I hated how easy you made it sound. I wanted to shove every win in your face after that - turn around and go, look. See? You were right. I did it. I fucking did it."

"You did," I said. "But don't give me too much credit. I said one true thing on a shitty floor. You built the rest."

"But you weren't there."

"No -"

"And I hated you for it," she talked over me, still looking away. "Then I missed you, and I hated that more. Then I fucked you again and told myself that solved the problem because sex has rules. You come over. Or I come over. We fuck. You leave. Easy."

She finally turned her head toward me.

"It was never easy. Obviously. Keep up."

That almost broke a laugh out of me. I held it in because she was still standing open in front of me, and I wasn't going to make her close back up just because the truth scared me.

She looked back at the sky, her grip on my hand loosening slightly.

"You know, I used to go to the JYP roof after you quit," she said softly, almost wistfully. "Above the old practice building, before we moved to the new one. Remember the door by the vending machines? The lock was broken for months. The machine made the whole stairwell blue, and I would sit by the rail after practice staring up until my neck hurt. I couldn't even see stars through the Seoul smog most nights, but just looking up at how massive and empty the sky was... it helped. It made whatever mistake I made in rehearsal feel incredibly small."

The wind pushed her dark hair across her face.

"Lia wasn't lying the other day," she murmured. "Zero light pollution. I always wanted to see what it looked like with you."

"You never told me about the roof," I said quietly.

She slowly lowered her chin to look at me, her dark eyes staring into mine. "You weren't there to tell."

Yeah, I'd earned that one.

"I - I didn't leave you," I mumbled.

She hooked her fingers into the front of my hoodie and pulled it tighter across her chest.

"I left JYP," I said. "The company. The trainee lists. The rooms with no windows. Trainers counting mistakes like they were collecting proof we didn't belong there. By the end, I hated dance. Music too. Mirrors. My own face in practice footage. I couldn't stay in it anymore."

"I know." She pressed the hoodie sleeve under her eye again, slower this time. "I knew then. You had that look. One more trainer said your name and you were going straight through the studio glass. I knew why you left."

She folded both hands around mine, trapping my fingers between her palms.

"It still felt the same."

I closed my other hand over hers.

"I think about it too," I said.

Her shoulders hitched once under the hoodie.

"The what-ifs?"

"Yeah. Bad dorm coffee. You yelling at me in stage makeup. Me pretending I wasn't staring at you in every practice clip." I watched her mouth tremble, then steady. "I thought about you on stage before you even debuted. After I quit, I couldn't listen to music for a while without feeling sick. Then your DALLA DALLA teaser dropped, and I watched it at two in the morning on my laptop with the volume low so my roommate wouldn't wake up."

She stared at me.

"Of course I watched," I said before she could ask. "I watched everything. At first because I missed you. Then because you were impossible not to watch. Then because it was easier to call it supporting an old friend than admit I was waiting for thirty seconds of fancam like a loser with a schedule."

Her mouth pulled sideways through the tears. "You never said."

"Neither did you."

"I was busy becoming famous."

"Yeah," I said, dragging my thumb over her knuckles until her grip loosened enough for blood to come back into my fingers. "You were."

She let the joke die there. For a while, there was only the ocean.

"Sometimes I pictured you in the company van," she said. "Sleeping with your mouth open, neck bent all wrong, complaining about my hairspray, stealing my heat pack. I pictured you backstage too. At awards, music shows - I pictured you beside me so many times that when it wasn't real, it pissed me off."

Below us, the waves kept time against the black rock, like it was counting down a future that had already passed.

"Do you think it would've been better?" she asked after a while.

I looked past her shoulder at the bonfire, far enough away now to be a small orange blur against the beach.

"No," I said.

Her brows drew together.

"I wanted it," I said, before she could argue. "I still want it. I... I see those backstage clips and it makes me sick how much I want to be the guy stealing your shrimp chips in the van. Or holding your jacket. Just the stupid, boring shit, you know? But if I hadn't quit, I would've dragged you down. You would've made it your project to fix my head, and I would've hated you for handling everything better than me. We would've wrecked each other."

She pulled one hand free and held it against her cheek.

"You don't know that."

I shifted closer, turning my shoulder into the wind to block a little of it from hitting her face. "I know what I was like when I left. Jealous of everyone still standing in those rooms. Even you. Especially you. You could take the hit and come back meaner. I took the hit and started flinching before anyone raised a hand."

"You were eighteen," she said.

"So were you."

"I was insane."

"Yeah." I squeezed her hand before she could turn that into a joke. "You were insane. Brilliant. You scared the shit out of me."

Her eyes stayed on mine.

"You already said that."

"I know."

She looked back up at the stars. The fight slowly went out of her shoulders.

"I don't want to keep checking rooms," she said. "I don't want to... every time we go somewhere new, I hate that my first instinct is still to look up. I get mad at myself every single time, because obviously you aren't going to be sitting in the third row of some random stadium, but I look anyway. And then I get pissed off that you aren't there."

She turned her face toward me again. The tears were drying cold against her cheeks, and this time, she let them stay.

"I want to be here," she murmured. "And know you're here."

Five years gone. The life we didn't get, gone too. But her hand was warm in mine, and the rock under us was solid.

I lifted our joined hands higher, near her neck, and used a slow pull to turn her around until she faced me.

Her eyes dropped to our hands. "Here?"

"Here."

"On a pile of cursed lava blocks."

"I've seen you dance on worse."

"It's a cliff edge, Minho."

"Scared?"

Her gaze snapped back up to my face, her dark eyes narrowing under the starlight.

"I'm going to make you look like an idiot," she warned.

"You always do."

She stepped in first, finding a flat face of basalt under one sneaker while my body slid right into place. My free hand swung up to catch her narrow waist. Hers found my shoulder, resting lightly at first before pressing down the second my stance locked. We stayed still chest to chest under the stars for one long breath. Her fingers tightened hard into my shoulder, pressing right over my pulse.

I took a step forward, but her muscles were already locked down hard to drive the motion on a strict downbeat.

The most powerful hip hop dancer in Seoul didn't know how to yield a count.

So I held my ground, keeping my hand steady against her waist while I waited. She stayed rigid against my hold, her breath trapped in her throat while her body fought the violent instinct to take the choreography over. Then her shoulders dropped. Her ribs softened under my hand.

That was when I knew I wasn't holding idol Yeji anymore.

She exhaled hard, let herself settle into my grasp, and allowed me to pull her into the next step.

Her eyes flicked up to my face.

"Better," I told her.

"Keep your fucking dance critiques to yourself," she muttered, though she stayed still against my chest.

"I just praised your adjustment."

"You corrected my texture."

"Your texture corrected itself."

"Still annoying."

Her fingers were tapping a silent, desperate count against the back of my shoulder.

"You're in your head, Yeji," I shot back. "After you spent months fucking that exact habit out of me so I'd learn to feel the beat and stop counting."

Her mouth fell open in the dark because I had her pinned.

I grinned down at her.

She rolled her eyes hard, but the tapping stopped.

I yielded the lead, letting my hand drag loose across her waist while our joined fingers cut a slow arc through the freezing night air. The stars smeared white across my vision as she pulled me through the turn, the whole sky tilting over her shoulder for one dizzying swing before the black Pacific snapped back behind her.

She took the space instantly, pushing off my palm to spin outward into the cold wind with her back snapping straight. The oversized hoodie flared open against the black backdrop of the Pacific, leaving her suspended on one leg with her dominant arm stretched back taut into my grip.

I yanked my arm hard and dragged her back toward the jagged rock.

She refused to soften the catch, hitting my chest on the count with a breathless gasp and giving me every bit of the step.

I crossed my arms instantly over her waist, locking her bare hands secure against her stomach before we could tumble backward toward the drop.

***

The first time we'd practiced lifts, she'd kept landing wrong on a swollen ankle she swore was fine, throwing herself backward exactly like this and banking on my arms snapping shut before she hit the floor. I'd locked my grip around her then, staring at her exhausted reflection in the studio mirror.

By the time they put cameras in her face, she'd already mastered hiding it without the mirrors.

She was eighteen when they put her on The Fan, two months shy of her debut and three since I'd quit, watching exactly 197 votes flash on the board - which meant three people didn't, shoving her straight onto the chopping block. Three weeks later, her back seized up so bad during rehearsal she had to go to the hospital. Straight out of the ER, she shot "New Rules" and danced like her spine wasn't locked down tight. The tears didn't drop until 224 flashed on the screen to say she survived, and even then, she smiled right through them to thank the whole country for forgiving her mistakes. I watched that broadcast and realized the girl who used to curse at her own swollen ankles in the JYPE building was gone. She'd figured out the job.

Hurt on your own time. Win first.

***

She nudged her head back against my shoulder in the dark, breathing slowly against my collarbone until she started to sing.

"Thinkin' about ya, my hand in a fist," she sang softly, her fingers tightening around mine on the last word.

I locked my grip tight around her waist. From every track in an industry built to say 'don't need you,' she sang the one that begged to be held. The low, warm catch of her voice hit my throat before she even pushed the words into the cold air. I knew exactly where that breath started. I'd spent hours in a sealed practice room trying to teach her how to drop air deep into her lungs when she was eighteen, blown out, and ready to quit. I taught her how to pull that breath, and then walked away before I got to hear what she did with it.

"A night I suffered alone."

She sang the next line right into my shirt, leaving me nowhere to put my hands except tighter around her back. I'd heard that track blaring out of arena speakers for years, but none of it sounded like this.

I rotated her inside my arms to face me under the moonlight. Her voice bent when our chests slammed together, then steadied as my hand slid down her waist to brace her lower back.

"You are here," she hummed softly.

"Here by my side," I came in under her, rough and late.

She twitched her mouth into a smile before dragging in air for the next line. Of course she heard me.

"Hold me tight, hold me tight."

I pressed my palm harder into her back. "You know I'm holding up when I see you."

She steadied herself against my shoulder as we tracked every step over the uneven basalt, shoes catching on slick edges where the columns broke toward the water. Her knee brushed against mine, pulled away, and brushed back again.

I backed us blindly toward the drop, watching a spray of loose gravel slip under my heel. Her eyes flicked from my face to the sheer edge. The old Yeji would have slammed her feet wider and taken over the step to keep us safe.

She let herself fall toward me instead.

"You and I, we ain't falling," she sang, stepping back and giving our joined hands a sharp downward pull.

"We'll go through it together," I replied.

She followed the cue instantly. Hip hop dancers fall into freezes by controlling their own descent and their own timing, but tonight, she broke that rule. Her spine went completely slack across my forearm to hand me the count. One hand locked tight in mine, and the other fell loose until her fingertips grazed the air above the dark water.

"Talkin' about ya, talkin' about us."

I dug my palm harder into her spine, sinking into my stance as she arched violently backward over my forearm. The oversized hoodie slid off one bare shoulder, leaving her suspended in a breathless backbend. Her throat bared to the cold wind, the rigid line of her flat stomach snapping tight the second she stopped trying to catch herself.

"You and I got the same feeling," I sang back.

She hitched a breathless laugh into the cold air, hanging reckless in my arms.

I shoved my sneakers down into the ground, locking my arm tighter around her back. The coastal wind tore at her dangling hair, dragging the loose neck of the hoodie down far enough to expose the athletic line of her collarbone.

She looked up at me from her lopsided pose in the dark, flashing the same fierce trust from those late-night practice rooms before her debut.

I dragged her back up, pulling her slowly with everything I had.

She rose in a smooth arc with her hair swinging forward, breaking on the tiniest laugh when her face snapped level with mine before grabbing hard onto the back of my neck.

I caught her bare jaw on pure reflex, my thumb sliding under the sharp ridge of her cheekbone.

"Hold me, you're doing well," she breathed.

"Hold me, please trust me," I answered against her mouth.

She gasped out a startled laugh that cracked the silence as my lungs emptied out.

I locked both hands around her waist, dug my heels in, and hoisted her clear off the stone, leaving her suspended over the edge of the Pacific while I stared up at her with the freezing surf roaring against the jagged rock somewhere way down in the dark.

She scrambled for my shoulders for a split second, but the moment she looked down into the black drop, a shaky breath broke out of her and she completely unspooled. Every rigid muscle went slack against my palms as she let go, pulling her hands away to spread her arms wide into the coastal wind instead of bracing for a fall. Her spine arched in a reckless curve over the ocean, leaving my hands the only thing keeping her from the drop.

I pushed my thumbs deep into her waist, holding her through the wind until her shaking ribs settled under my grip.

She pulled her chin back down, looking at me through the loose hair whipping across her face as she pushed the final outro into the night.

"We ain't falling like a domino."

I lowered her slowly, letting her slide down the length of my chest until the soles of her shoes hit the rock.

She stayed pressed against me, burying her face into my shoulder while the last notes hummed against my bare neck.

"Like a domino, domino."

I wrapped her up in the dark, hands gripping fistfuls of her oversized hoodie while her lungs fought for air against my chest.

"You knew the lower harmony," she mumbled into my shoulder, her voice still rough from the cold. "You caught the bridge exactly on the downbeat."

"I have good rhythm."

Her grip tightened in my shirt. "That's a tour-only B-side, Minho. And it came out three years after you quit."

"The Hulu Theater," I said quietly, pressing my palm flat against her lower back. "Madison Square Garden. November 2022. I had a work trip, remember? Took the red-eye out of L.A. and stood in the very back row."

PHOTO CREDITS: yours truly (November 13, 2022, Madison Square Garden, back row)

She went completely still against me, the brutal realization of that flight and that ticket clicking into place.

"You were in New York," she whispered.

"Always there somehow," I said, sliding my hand around the back of her neck and tangling my warm fingers into her freezing hair. "I never miss a stage."

Yeji sucked in a sharp gasp against my shoulder.

Then the world dragged us back. A massive wave shattered below, and someone, probably Yunjin, yelled from far down the beach by the bonfire. Yuna shouted something equally loud in response, followed by Chaeryeong screaming and Karina's boisterous laughter tearing up the beach.

Then Yeji exhaled a long, shuddering breath into my collarbone.

"My ass is going numb," she groaned.

A sharp, wrecked laugh tore out of my throat before I could stop myself. Yeji's shoulders started shaking against my chest, her forehead digging into my muscle as she failed to swallow down her own ridiculous giggling. We were standing on the edge of a deadly cliff drop, laughing pointlessly into each other's necks like idiots in the dark.

"So romantic," I choked out.

"It really is. Lava rock is terrible."

"I'll bring a blanket next time."

Next time.

She went quiet, and my laugh died before it could finish.

She pulled her face up from my shoulder. Tears caught the starlight in her eyes and made her look startlingly young.

"Yeah," she finally whispered, her fingers tightening at my shirt. "Next time."

I dragged my thumb under her eye and swiped the moisture away before it could slip down her cheek, letting her lean deeper into my hand.

"You weren't scared," I said quietly. "When I had you hanging over the ocean."

"Of course I was scared," she muttered.

"Didn't feel like it."

Her grip tightened at the back of my shirt. "Because you don't drop me."

The whole song-and-dance still burned through my muscles, from the heat to the tight grip to the last murmur of her singing against my skin, folding all that lost time down to the single fact that she was standing right in front of me.

"You actually sang for me," I said quietly.

Her mouth gave a weak, broken twitch. "I get paid to sing, asshole."

"You sang for me tonight."

She turned her head slowly, looking intently out toward the endless stretch of stars.

"You walked me back to it," she whispered. "I forgot how to share a count."

***

Somehow we ended up on the flattest shelf of basalt I could find, because Yeji was shivering through my hoodie and I sure as hell wasn't letting her freeze her ass off on a jagged pile of rock.

I sat first, planted wide, and tugged her down between my knees before she could argue.

She hit my lap with a startled yelp as my arms clamped around her waist. Grabbing my forearms, she adjusted her thighs and leaned back against my chest, tucking her bare legs between my denim.

The Pacific pounded the shoreline below in a slow, heavy rhythm. After a minute, her shoulders stopped jumping under my hands.

"It's almost too much," she murmured into the cold air.

I rested my chin near the crown of her head. "What is?"

"All those stars." She kept her hands still over mine.

I followed her gaze up. Without the Seoul smog bleeding out the sky, the galaxy stretching over us looked massive.

"Yeah," I said quietly. "Makes you feel small."

She let out a slow breath. "Small... but not alone."

I pulled my arms tighter around her waist, letting the heavy crash of the shoreline fill the dark for a minute.

"Karina whispered something to me," she said, dropping lower against my chest. "That first night at her villa."

I dragged my thumb over her knuckle. "After she hugged you?"

Her head turned slightly. "You saw that?"

"I saw her lean in. I saw you nod." I pressed my jaw against her hood. "Never heard the words."

Her hand closed harder over my forearm.

"She said, 'Without the courage to fall.'" Yeji looked back up at the stars. "'You already know, Yeji-yah - you sang it yourself.'"

The surf hit the rock below us.

"'You can never fly,'" I murmured, pressing my jaw against her head. "Best line in Bet On Me. Can't believe Karina gets your own lyrics better than you do."

Her elbow knocked lightly into my ribs. "Show-off."

Her pinky found mine and hooked around it, small and stubborn.

"I think..." She swallowed hard. "I thought if I just... opened my hand, there'd be nothing there."

I looked down at our fingers.

She squeezed once.

"But there is."

My grip tightened around her waist.

"If I had debuted..." I said under the sound of the surf. "Would we even have this?"

She finally broke her gaze away from the sky, shifting her head to look at me. "This?"

"Us. Like this." I looked down at our hands. "Maybe we would've eaten each other alive trying to survive it."

She dragged her thumb over the back of my hand. "Maybe that version of us would've been worse."

"So what do we do now?"

Her fingers tightened around mine. "We stop trying to rewrite the stars. We just... look at them."

I squeezed her fingers back in the quiet, pressing my jaw against her cool hair.

"You became Hwang Yeji because I quit," I told her to the dark. "Like I said. If I'd stayed, you would've kept focusing on fixing my head. I left, and you had to build everything yourself."

Her back went rigid against me.

"You want to know a secret?" she asked.

"Always."

"That night in the practice room. When I was falling apart, and you sat on the floor with me and told me I belonged there." She swallowed hard. "I became an idol because you made me believe I could."

I went quiet.

"Every stage I stood on," she whispered out into the ocean. "Every award I took. Every time I led the group when things went to shit... I was channeling the person you saw in me that night."

I closed my eyes, pressing my face into her hair.

"So yeah," she finished, a wet, quiet laugh slipping out. "You left. But you also gave me everything."

For once, I didn't know what to hate myself for. I buried my face into the side of her neck, pulling her flush against my chest until she let out a long, shuddering sigh.

Her body heat warmed my skin right through the fleece. The waves kept hitting the rock below us. Her hand stayed locked in mine.

We watched the stars.

I loosened my grip slightly so she could breathe.

"So why were you actually standing on a cliff edge taking shitty pictures in the dark?" I asked.

Her mouth curved into a smile against my collarbone. "I told you. I needed a photo for Bubble."

"You have six thousand photos of yourself on your phone right now."

"Of stars, idiot. A starlight shot." She twisted against my chest, retrieving the cold metal of her phone from her back pocket. "I've been dead silent online since we got to Jeju. Since you took those sunset pictures of me looking..."

"Like a liability?"

"Exactly." She sighed, staring down at the black screen. "I needed a cover story. A peace offering for the fans to cover my tracks. But my hands kept shaking the lens out of focus."

Her bare fingers trembled against the phone casing. I slid my arm around her side and offered my palm.

"Let me?"

She handed the phone over immediately.

I brought the screen up, framing the brightest cluster of the Milky Way directly over our heads. The camera static cleared instantly. I locked my elbows, leveling the shot perfectly still.

Her hand came up. Her freezing fingers slid over the back of mine, letting our knuckles overlap as we held the frame together.

"Ready?" I murmured.

"Yeah."

She dragged her thumb over mine, hitting the shutter.

The screen flashed once, burning a crisp, sharp image of the Jeju stars into the camera roll.

Yeji let out a long, shuddering exhale. Dragging her hand down, she hooked her pinky blindly into mine and rested her head back onto my shoulder. The phone slipped onto my denim. I wrapped both arms securely around her, burying my face against the fleece of her hood as we stared up into the dark.

The digital glow of the locked screen faded to black against my jeans.

***

[NARRATOR]

Two silhouettes sat tangled together on a flat shelf of dark volcanic rock. The Pacific stretched out before them, an endless expanse of black water and silver break crashing against the basalt in a mindless rhythm. Behind them, far up the sand, the bonfire had already died down to an tiny orange pinprick.

And above them: stars beyond counting.

The Milky Way swept across the black sky, a massive stretch of burning gas and dead space. The galaxy turned in the dark, holding no stake in the shoreline below or the five stolen years surviving on one ledge of stone.

Millions of fans spent their lives looking up at the girl on the Jeju rock, their own devotion illuminated by her heat.

But the sky offered no such promises, leaving the real stars to shine in the freezing vacuum of space regardless of who was watching.

All that empty space rendered the moment ephemeral.

Jeju had always been a place of exile - a stray sliver of volcanic rock separated from the real world by a small stretch of sea. The mainland's rules didn't apply out here. All the island offered was a brief suspension of time, leaving the cameras and the crushing pressure of Seoul across the water until nothing remained but the truth.

Caught between the black ocean dropping below and the silent universe expanding above, the only warmth in the coastal wind came from the embers they'd learned to keep alive in each other.

And the only meaning at the edge of the world was whatever they chose to hold in their hands.

So the stars just kept shining.

And so would they.

Intro | Masterlist | Series Index Previous Chapter

――――――――――――――――――

MINHO, YEJI, YUNA, AND KARINA WILL RETURN IN THE EPILOGUE

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

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

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

The gate buzzed before you could press the intercom.

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

The gate swung open.

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

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

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

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

And her face. Jesus Christ, her face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A little."

"Why?"

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

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

"A year."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"This?"

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

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

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

"No."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Tell me your safeword," you said.

"Red."

"And if you can't speak?"

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

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

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

"What?"

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

"Nothing else exists," she repeated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her voice was barely a whisper. "Yes."

"And you want that?"

"God, yes."

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

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

"Does he touch you?"

"No."

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

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

"Please," she said. "Please."

"Please what?"

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

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

"I'm not changing my mind."

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

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

“Yes.”

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

“I know the rules.”

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

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

“And what’s your word?”

“Red.”

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

“How does that feel?”

Karina exhaled. “Dark.”

“Can you see anything?”

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” she breathed.

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

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

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

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

“No—” The word came out strangled.

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

“He doesn’t… he never…”

“He never what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mmmhmm—” The affirmation vibrated through your shaft.

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

“Why?”

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

“A mouth.”

“Yes.”

“A set of holes.”

She shuddered. “Yes.”

“Say it.”

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

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

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

Her lips trembled. “Please.”

“Please what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did you want to?"

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

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

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

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

"Preferred what?"

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

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

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

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

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

You found it.

Karina screamed.

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

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

"Don't stop—please don't stop—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You need what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Good girl."

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

"I'm close—I'm so close—"

You pulled your fingers out.

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

"Turn over."

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

"Spread your legs."

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

"Touch yourself."

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

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

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

"And does your husband ever make you come?"

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

"Don't stop. Keep rubbing."

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

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

"Stop."

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes." The word was barely a whisper.

"Do you still want this?"

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

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

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

"Spread your ass cheeks."

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

"Wider."

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

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

You positioned yourself behind her.

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

"Is this what you want?"

"Yes—"

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

"Say it again. Louder."

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

You thrust forward.

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

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

Karina's scream pitched higher.

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

"Your womb. I know."

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

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

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

"Good."

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

"AH—"

"Again."

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

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

"Yes—yes—fuck—harder—"

You gave her harder.

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

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

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

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

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

Karina's whole body convulsed.

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

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

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

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

"It's too much—it's—oh god—OH GOD—"

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

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

"One more. Give me one more."

"I can't—I can't—"

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

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

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

And then she shattered.

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you still with me?" you asked.

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

"That was what?"

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

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

Karina whimpered at the emptiness.

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

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

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

She had never looked more beautiful.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"You don't have to thank me."

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

"And right now? How do you feel?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's normal."

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

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

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

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

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

"Remember what?"

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

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

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

"You know what I mean."

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

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

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

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

She pressed a small folded paper into your palm.

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

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

"I won't disappear," you said.

"You say that now."

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

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

"I'm a simple man."

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

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

Three weeks passed.

Senior Park called on a Tuesday.

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

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

"Who is it?" you asked.

A pause. Park was savoring this.

"Jang Wonyoung."

The name hit you like a bucket of cold water.

"Wonyoung? From IVE?"

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

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

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

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

"Mutual acquaintance?"

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

The line went dead.

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

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

The doors opened onto a private foyer.

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

Wonyoung stood at the window with her back to you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I can leave."

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

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

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

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

"A year of what?"

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

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

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

"Then what are you looking for?"

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

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-nine."

"And how old is he?"

A pause. "Fifty-two."

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

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

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

"What do you think it was now?"

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

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

"What do you want from tonight?"

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

"Perfect sense."

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

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

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

Then she took it.

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

"Your safeword?"

"Red."

"And if you can't speak?"

"Three taps. Anywhere you can feel them."

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

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

"What?"

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

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

"I understand," she said.

"Good. Now take off the robe."

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

Underneath she wore nothing at all.

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

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

"You're very beautiful," you said.

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

"Do you believe them?"

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

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

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

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

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

"That's not what I asked."

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

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

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

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

"A product."

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

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

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

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

"How?" she asked.

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

Her voice was a whisper. "Yes."

"Good."

You let your hand settle on her shoulder.

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

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

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

"Months?"

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

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

"Close your eyes," you said.

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

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

"I can try."

"Don't try. Just do."

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

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

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

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

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

"You feel that?"

"Yes."

"What does it feel like?"

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

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

"Don't stop," she whispered.

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

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

"Open your eyes," you said.

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

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

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

"Good. Then let's begin."

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

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

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

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

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

"Close your eyes."

Her lashes swept down.

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

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

Your palm settled on her skin.

And Wonyoung began to tremble.

Your palm settled on Wonyoung's stomach.

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

"You're shaking," you said.

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

"Don't stop. Let it happen."

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

"What are you feeling?"

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

"What else?"

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

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

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

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

"You heard me."

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

"You don't masturbate?"

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

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

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

"So controlled."

"Yes."

"Show me."

Her eyes flew open. "What?"

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

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

"Okay," she whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes—I didn't know—no one's ever—"

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

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

"Not for touching."

"Not for touching."

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

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

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

"I don't know if I can—"

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

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

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

"Is that—is that normal?"

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

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

"Keep them open. I want to watch."

"I can't—it's too—"

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

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

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

"What does it feel like?"

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

"You need to come."

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

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

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

Then she collapsed.

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

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

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

"Not like that."

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

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

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

"It makes perfect sense."

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

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

"Is that a problem?"

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

"Look all you want."

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

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

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

"Like this?" she asked.

"Reverse."

"What?"

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

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

"Then you know how it works."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't know if I can—"

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

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

"Fuck—fuck, you're stretching me—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Good. Now move."

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

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

"Tell me what it feels like."

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes—yes—harder—"

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

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

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

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

"How much do you love it?"

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

The tears started then.

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

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

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

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

"I know."

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

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

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

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

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

She shattered.

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

And then she squirted.

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

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

"Don't stop. Take everything."

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

You wrapped your arms around her waist and held her.

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

"Thank you," she whispered.

"You don't have to thank me."

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

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

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

"I've had practice."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Waking came in stages.

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

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

Third, the sensation.

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

You opened your eyes.

Wonyoung was between your legs.

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

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

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

She was happy.

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

You chuckled. The sound was rough with sleep.

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

"What a cheeky girl," you murmured.

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

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

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

"Too much?" you asked.

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

"To what?"

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

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

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

"His own bed was unfamiliar?"

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

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

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

"Come here," you said.

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

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

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

"Entirely."

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

She stepped into the shower first. You followed.

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

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

"Turn around," you said.

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

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

"The shower?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Your turn," she said.

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

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

"Different how?"

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

"This is?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Not here."

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

"You already thanked me."

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

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

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

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

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

"You what?"

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

"To what?"

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

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

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

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

"Every time."

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

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

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

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

You smiled despite yourself.

Three days passed.

Senior Park called on a Friday.

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

"Complicated how?"

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

"Who is it?"

"Moon Ga Young."

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

"Moon Ga Young? The actress?"

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

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

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

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

"Same story," you said.

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

You raised an eyebrow. "She said that?"

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

The line went dead.

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

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

"Come in. It's open."

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

You pushed the door open.

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

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

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

But the robe she was wearing was anything but delicate.

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm working."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't treat anyone like glass."

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

"Does he know you're here?"

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

"And what are you looking for tonight?"

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

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

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

"Red."

"Tap-out?"

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

"Part of the service."

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

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

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

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

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

"Which is?"

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

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

"Do you?"

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

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

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

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

"On your knees."

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

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

"Hands behind your back."

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

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

"Wrists."

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

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

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

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

"No."

"Good."

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

"Open your mouth."

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

"Wider."

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

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

You pushed forward.

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

Then you pushed deeper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

"Then open your mouth."

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

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

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

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

You pulled back.

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

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

You slapped her.

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

"Did I tell you to speak?"

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

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

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

"Good. Now show me you understand."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another moan. Higher-pitched. Almost frantic.

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

"I'm close—fuck, I'm close—"

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

The orgasm hit you like a freight train.

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

"Swallow. All of it."

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

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

"Thank you," she whispered.

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

"We're not done."

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

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

"Against the wall."

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

"Spread your legs."

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

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

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

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

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

"Beg."

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

You thrust into her cunt in one brutal motion.

Ga Young screamed.

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

"Oh fuck—oh fuck—you're so deep—"

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

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

"Yes—yes—harder—"

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

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

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

"YES—YES—THIS IS—"

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

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

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

"And what do you see?"

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

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

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

"I'm coming—I'm coming—oh god, I'm—"

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

But you weren't done.

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

"Hold onto me."

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

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

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

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

"Harder—please—harder—"

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

"Look at me."

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

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

"Yes—yes—"

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

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

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

Her orgasm hit like an explosion.

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

"Fuuuuuuuck—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Feel it now."

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

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

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

She was still asleep.

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

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

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

"Where are you going?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Ga Young—"

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

The suite door clicked open.

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

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

Karina stood in the doorway.

Wonyoung was right behind her.

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

Something hungrier.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A weekend?"

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

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

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

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

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

You swallowed.

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

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

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

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

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

"To be alive," Karina said.

"To be wanted," Wonyoung added.

"To be fucked properly," Ga Young finished.

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

"Take off your shirt," Karina said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Together," Karina said.

"Together," Wonyoung echoed.

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

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

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

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

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

"I won't break."

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

"Understood."

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

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

"Are you coming?"

The question was simple. The answer was simpler.

You followed them into the bedroom.

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

They looked at you. Waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You climbed onto the bed.

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

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

You kissed her.

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

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

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

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

"And now?"

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

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

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

"You will."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

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

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