A/n: this was supposed to be a rewrite, but I basically made an entirely new fic but with the same premise. Hope you still enjoy it. - from the writer formerly known as m1rotics.
Warnings: Dubcon, Reader is implied to have been given up to Hongjoong, Power Imbalance, Manipulation, Light Misogyny, Exhibitionism, Forced Caretaking, Pussy Inspection, Degradation, Groping, Body Worship, Light Fear Play, Dumbification, Slight Intoxication Play, Spit Play, Threats, Orgasm Control, Virginity Kink. Religious imagery is used + it gets blasphemous in usual cult fashion.
The room is neat and monochromatic.
The bed cover is black, the curtains are a dark grey, and the sheets are a lighter shade. The only dashes of color are from the nick-knacks lined up on the dresser and the books lining the shelves. It's a contained portion. All of it pressed against one wall; the desk tucked between the shelves.
The bed has its own wall, coupled by a single, smaller dresser on its right. It's a nice room. If the situation were different, you'd go so far as to describe the room as comfortable. Cozy, even. They clearly keep it tidy and ready to receive guests, but you can't admire that right now. Your palms are sweating and your stomach is churning. There's a layer of sweat forming all over your body. You're trembling. You want to hurl. You might pass out, or you'll save yourself the embarrassment and skip to choking on your own tongue.
Everyone's leering at you, watching, observing you like some kind of fidgety animal or a shiny, new toy. It's so quiet, you can distinguish each one of their breaths.
It's like the world is at a stand-still. The ground is minutes from crumbling beneath your feet. The calm before the storm.
Hongjoong hands rest on your hips, and he draws himself closer until the two of you are slotted together. He purrs, low in your ear, "they're going to get you ready for me. Prep you, pamper you, all those courtesies."
You swallow. The nerves lodged in your throat make it hard to speak. Stress rendering your tongue incapable. Hongjoong doesn't seem to care, nor want a response. You let your eyes wander, aiming to ignore the others. Eight men. There's eight people in here, and you only know one of them.
It makes you nervy. You've never been in a room with so many men—you were never allowed to. Hongjoong claimed the title of the first man you were left alone with besides your father a few weeks ago. Now you're up to eight.
Yet, they all know you.
Hongjoong presses his cheek to yours. "Isn't she pretty?"
When no one answers, his hand grips your chin to force you to look at them. Your gaze locks with Seonghwa. The other person you know, barely, but you've heard of him. You know him mainly by name; Hongjoong speaks of him a lot, is near him a lot when you aren't around, so you've seen his face in passing. However, you haven't really gotten to know anyone but Hongjoong. Not through your own volition, but because it's a part of the rules. To bond you and Hongjoong closer.
It's important for you to form that trust with him, is what they told you. This is sacred.
You're getting special treatment from what you've heard. Not just anyone gets to experience this. Only the worthy. Only the chosen.
Your parents were jubilant. Their little girl favored by Hongjoong. Hand-picked to be by his side.
Nobody new has gotten this close to him. Nobody but you.
"Don't look away again," Hongjoong mutters. "I taught you how to listen, didn't I?"
"You did."
Hongjoong's hands trail up to your waist, dipping underneath your shirt. Warm hands kneading your stomach. "She's quite soft, I think you'll like her." His hands go further up, groping your tits, and yanking a yelp out of you. Hongjoong keeps you pushed against him. He noses at your temple as he says, "Especially here."
Your face burns, but you don't protest. You don't attempt to get away from him, you stand and take it. Nobody speaks, but it's not like they were intended to. No, they're taking to their role just as they're supposed to. Silently waiting. He peels himself away with a one last squeeze to your breasts, pulling your shirt back in its place.
"You're gonna be good for them, right?" He asks. "I don't want to hear any complaints about you later."
"Yeah," your voice is subdued, hushed. "I will."
"Good," he pushes you forward.
You flounder, and it takes everything to keep yourself from falling onto your knees.
"Be nice to her, 'kay?" He lilts, flippant.
Everyone takes it as the warning it's meant to be.
You hear the door open, then shut, solidifying the fact that you're alone with them. It's suffocating. You're so nervous, it's making you sick. You've never been anywhere without Hongjoong acting as your buffer.
You've been left in a lion's den.
They don't bother with any niceties. They move quickly, working as units. One person takes your back, pulling your shirt up and above your head. When you're able to see again, the prettiest man you've ever laid eyes on is standing in front of you, beginning to unbutton your pants. His hair is a vivid burgundy, and it matches the birthmark under his left eye.
Your mouth opens. He leaves before you can speak.
It's hard to catch up. When one leaves, another one takes their place. The man in front of you is tall. Tall enough that you have to lift your head a bit to look him in the eye. He's intimidating. His eyes are dark and intense. His plump bottom lip pulled between his teeth.
He gropes your chest through your bra and groans at the give. He steps closer. You attempt to step back, but the man at your back prevents that.
"Don't get too handsy, Mingi," he chides. Although, it's too light to be a true scolding.
The man—Mingi—chuckles, deep and syrupy, but his hands don't move. He doesn't show any remorse. He licks his lips, eyeing you down.
Your breath hitches. There's a pit in your stomach you can't shake. Apprehension riding your heels.
"Look at her. She's practically begging to be fucked." A finger traces up the length of your spine, stopping at the clasp of your bra. You whimper when your bra strap hits your back, jolting at the spritz of pain. He unfastens it. Mingi slides it off your shoulder, letting it fall onto the carpet.
A man with fox eyes and a lazy grin saunters up to you next. His hair is long enough to tickle his neck. His hands settle on your waist, thumbs pressing into your stomach. He squeezes.
"She is soft," he murmurs, pouting. "This is making me jealous. He's so lucky. I want-"
Seonghwa kisses his teeth. "That's too bad, Woo. Get on with it."
The man, who you now know as Woo, guides you to the bed. He keeps physical contact the entire time: a hand on the small of your back, on your arms to spin you around, and on your shoulders to push you down until you're lying on your back. He coaxes your thighs open, careful and slow, as if he's savoring the process.
You see him swallow, and his head falls back with a tiny groan. Then, he's back to it. His fingers latch onto the band of your underwear. He drags them down your legs treacherously slowly, and you don't see where they've been discarded when they're finally off, but you figure it's none of your concern. He inches closer, and you can feel the heat of his breath now. Fanning over you.
Seonghwa wrenches him up by the hair.
"Hwa, don't-" he whines. "Please I need—"
He gestures for someone, and two men wrangle Woo out the way, so that Seonghwa may take his place.
"Yun, hold her open," he murmurs.
Two large hands peel your thighs apart, keeping them there. Seonghwa brushes over your pubic hair. He pauses for a moment, then calls for someone. They bend down and he mutters something to them.
"I think he'd prefer her clean."
Seonghwa takes a moment to consider. Then, he turns back to you. The man stands to full height and backs away. The conversation, or lack thereof, makes you dizzy. His finger swipes through the lips of your cunt, and by the slide, you know it's damp. He hums, seemingly pleased.
You twitch, thighs flexing as they try to close.
It isn't until then that you realize you've been staring off into space, into the man above you. He's handsome. Soft features and coffee brown eyes. Dark blue hair shrouding his face. Your struggle draws his attention, and he clicks his tongue, scolding you without words. Your mouth opens, a question on the tip of it.
Yun grins, shaking his head.
You don't say anything. You almost forgot there's no need to. Best behavior. Don't talk. Don't fight.
You're doing so well. Hongjoong will be pleased. There will be no complaints if you can help it.
You jump when Seonghwa spreads you open. Slick folds completely on display now. He stops to look for a moment, inspecting you. No notes at the end, so you assume he doesn't find anything. You hope his silence is a good thing. He taps your clit, and your hips jolt. He doesn't say anything about that either. He runs a finger through the slick dribbling from your hole, and you whimper.
"Sensitive," he comments, sinking a finger in. The apology you had on the ready dies on your tongue. You gasp. You hear someone titter, a few whispers. It slides in easily. He curls his finger and your toes bend.
The pleasure is plucked away, fast as it was given.
"Everyone out. I'll do the rest myself," Seonghwa declares, rising from his knees.
There's a plethora of muttered curses as they go. A couple pleads to stay. Seonghwa staunchly ignores them, keeping his focus on you.
"Come," he orders.
You clamber off the bed and onto your feet, trailing after him like a lost puppy. He doesn't go far. He opens one of the two doors in the room.
It's a bathroom, so the other must be a closet.
It's beautiful. Spacious. Just a tad bit smaller than the actual room. The entire thing is marbled, and the tiled floor makes you shiver. It follows the coloring of the room, blueish-grey splattered with black. Black steel faucets and the wall art. The white clawfoot tub sits on its lonesome.
Seonghwa collects everything he needs and lines it up on the counter—body wash, lotion, oils, and shaving cream.
"Is this your room?"
He gives a noncommittal hum, ignoring you in favor of filling the tub with water. He pours in a pink liquid and some type of oil, swirling his hand around to help get it all foamy.
"Get in," he instructs.
You hesitate, waiting for Seonghwa to leave, or walk away. He doesn't.
"Are you going to watch me bathe..?"
"Of course not," Seonghwa says. "I'm going to bathe you."
When he puts it that way, it makes you sound stupid. You should've put that together. You should've known. He's already done so much, this was only natural.
You amble closer.
Gingerly, you dip your feet into the water. He must have been mindful of the temperature, because it's perfect. Neither too hot nor too cold. You sigh, leaning back, allowing yourself to relax. Your legs stretch as far as they can. Which is actually pretty far. This is quite a large tub.
"Comfortable?"
You can't tell if he's being condescending or not, but Hongjoong told you to be good, so you will.
"Yes, it is."
It's not like you're lying. It really is comfortable. The water is scented. It's warm. There's space for you to stretch out, and it's doing wonders for your nerves. All that apprehension pushed to the backdrop, so that you can focus on the now. Plus, you don't have a crowd of people leering at you anymore.
If you were Hongjoong, you'd go crazy. He's constantly being watched. Constantly being waited on.
Seonghwa doesn't reply, but he reaches over and tugs one of your legs out of the water. He washes you in sections— legs, neck, and arms. He has you stand up to reach your torso. It goes quickly with Seonghwa being surprisingly thorough. Goes over your entire body twice. He dries you off too.
"Sit here."
He pats the free space beside the sink. You listen, propping yourself up and powering through the chill of your bare ass on the counter. It's unsanitary and vaguely disgusting, but he hadn't handed you any clothing, so you deserve some grace.
Seonghwa lotions you from the soles of your feet to the skin of your neck, gently, nearly massage-like in nature.
"You're really good with your hands," you mumble. "Did you learn this for Joongie?"
That puts the smallest hint of a smile on Seonghwa's face. Despite his silence, you can tell he appreciates it. You're too busy admiring him to care about the lack of response. Up close, he's stunning with high cheekbones and honey-gold skin. A straight nose bridge and nice plump lips.
Seonghwa taps your thigh. "Wider."
So, you listen, spreading your legs. Seonghwa rubbing something on your cunt makes you jump. Oh. Right, there was a can of shaving cream. He's planning to shave you. That's why that guy said he'd prefer it bare—they were talking about your cunt. The realization makes you shiver. Enough to catch Seonghwa's attention.
"Be still."
"Sorry. I'm nervous. I've just-" you stammer. "I've never.."
Seonghwa stops you. "I know."
You mutter another apology. Shame boiling your blood. It's hard to stay put when he begins to slather you in it. The shaving cream is warmer than you expected. Maybe, Seonghwa warmed it up for you. It's still weird. You wish you could kill this restlessness. The difference of energy between the two of you is jarring. Seonghwa doesn't seem to hold any of your woes. He moves with precision; purpose. He lathers it everywhere he needs to. The creases of your thighs, the lower stomach, mound, and folds.
There's a gentle quality to it. Careful as to not hurt you, or he doesn't want to hear you complain. Daddy always told you to be wary of men. That they almost always have ill intent. He dips lower to get your taint and asshole too. Stops to wash his hand before he continues. Then, he's picking up the razor and sinking to his knees to get a better view.
You have to ask. "Have you done this before?"
Seonghwa pauses. His eyes flicking up to your face, and you see him deciding if he'll answer. "Something like that."
You figured. There's no reason to be this good if you've never done it before.
"Remember, it's very important you don't move. I trust you can do that."
He speaks to you like a kid, like you're stupid, drawing the words out. Honey cascading off a spool.
He waits for you to nod.
Indignation simmers in your gut. You're not stupid. You know the importance of it. It's common sense.
He starts from the top, below your belly button, beginning to work his way down. Uses his thumb to anchor the skin in place. He shaves you slowly, working down in the creases. Then moving back to the top to go down again. He goes with the grain, never against it. Seonghwa is methodical. He doesn't rush. He doesn't nick you. There's no wasted movements. He doesn't do anything he doesn't have to.
Occasionally, he halts to dunk the razor and wipe it off. It turns into a routine. A few swipes, dunk, wipe, and continue.
"Hold yourself open."
You do.
Like this, it's nearly impossible to stifle your tremors. There's an itch in your body. A tickle beneath the skin. Something that you continuously have to smother. You've never had anyone look at you so intently, or be this close to your privates at all. It must be the intimacy of it that's getting to you. The sheer amount of care that Seonghwa is putting in this. Slick is leaking out of you, pooling onto the counter and almost to the edge.
If it gets in the way, Seonghwa doesn't mention it. He doesn't even acknowledge it. He just readjusts his grip to get access to the bottom of your cunt and your crack.
When he's done, he wipes the rest off with a washcloth. Then, he's leaning closer to hike himself off the ground, and you flinch at his breath blowing over your clit.
Bewildered, you stare at him for a moment, waiting for him to say something, to berate you, or do anything at all.
He does none of those things. He just looks at you, cryptic in that way you've come to expect from him.
You relax, chalking it up to an accident.
Something akin to what could be a chuckle leaves him, but it also just sounds like a puff of air through his nose.
"Stay right there."
You lightly swing your legs as you wait for him, counting the streaks in the marble to quell your he comes back holding a translucent robe. You hop down to let him slip it on you.
He escorts you to Hongjoong like that. Barefoot and dazed. Hongjoong kisses you silly while you wait for them, asking questions about how it went and if they were nice to you. Trivial things to pass the time.
"Do you like them?"
You blink. A pause. You don't really like them. You don't know if you're allowed to not like them. Hongjoong wouldn't like it if you said that. Nobody likes when you have an opinion on anything.
Obedience is key. Compliance is indispensable.
"Yeah, I do."
Hongjoong smiles. "I'm sure they like you too."
You lean into him. "I hope so."
Anxiety doesn't catch up to you again until your lying on the stone with Hongjoong standing at the base of it, and all of his men standing a few feet away. They're all wearing the same thing—a black long sleeve, black leather pants with a matching mask, silver accessories—it's intimidating. The ambiance. The scrutiny of it.
It's odd to see all of them so quiet, stock-still, statuesque in their silence.
Your parents warned you about men, about their licentiousness, about what happens when girls like you stray. They told you that your husband is the only one who should see you like this. You wonder if they're aware that Hongjoong has turned you into a proper spectacle. If they'd still follow him despite.
You wonder if this is wrong.
You aren't quite sure anymore.
"Has anyone ever touched you before?"
Hongjoong murmurs, peering down at you. It's a question he's asked before. He knows what you'll say, but you must answer.
"No, I've never…" you whisper. "I've never been touched before."
"Have you ever wanted to know a man?"
"Only you," you confess.
Hongjoong grins, flashing white teeth.
"Then you shall."
Hongjoong's hands are hot when he touches your skin, settling on your ankles—warm like freshly spilled blood, staining your skin, permeating your body. You allow yourself to melt under his palms.
In the candlelight, he is nothing short of saintly. His hair is so close to white, it glows in the light. Forming a little halo around his head. His skin a beautiful shade of ochre. His eyes, in contrast, are black. Hunger dwells within them, hidden just below the surface. He crawls closer, and through the gap you could see the soft swells of his pectorals. His robe is the color of lapis, of clear skies. Though, it looks darker in dim lighting.
Hongjoong pushes your legs apart to slot himself between them. His hand trailing from your thigh to your hip, while the other hikes your leg up to bend your knee.
He leans down, pressing a kiss to your stomach. You squirm, eyelashes fluttering. He chuckles into you, planting another an inch higher. Then an open-mouthed kiss to your sternum. Another in between your clavicles. He doesn't worry about removing your robe, doesn't even try. He doesn't have to.
It's thin enough you can feel through it. You can feel everything. The heat of his breath, his plush lips, and his heavy hands on your hips.
Sporadically, he rakes his blunt nails up and down your sides to tempt more reactions out of you.
"D'ya like it?" He breathes, tongue laving over your ear. "Does it feel good to be under me?"
You shudder, hiccuping. It feels weird. Wet and warm. Ticklish. "I dunno. It feels… odd."
"You'll like it," he promises. Kisses the spot below your ear. "I'll make you like it."
Hongjoong swoops down, attaching his mouth to your tit. His tongue swipes over your nipple and your body trembles. Your thighs rub together, and you can feel the wetness collecting between them. It embarrasses you. The crest of arousal, wetness blooming between your legs. His free hand provides your neglected nipple with attention. He cups your breast in his hand, squeezing. Absently rubbing your nipple, tugging on it. It sends tingles of pleasure through you.
Your head lifts. You have to blink away the film to see. Hongjoong's rosy mouth latched onto your breast. His eyes half-mast and murky.
It's not long until he switches to the other side. His hand pinches your spit-soaked nipple. He sucks hard and you gasp, chest stuttering. Your hips buck. One of your hands buries itself in his hair, wedging yourself against him. Hongjoong laughs into you, and it ripples through you. Traveling all the way to your cunt. Your other hand rests on his shoulder, and you have to stop yourself from digging your nails in.
"Want more," you huff, petulant.
The sounds coming out of you are obscene. Things you couldn't have imagined. You didn't know your vocal cords could produce these noises. You hadn't realized you were capable.
Hongjoong pulls of a with a pop, panting. His lips swollen and bruised. His lips pucker, and the gush of air that follows is enough to tug a whine from you. He ducks down to bite at your rib. You whimper.
"See how needy you are from me playing with your cute tits," he titters, lapping at the teeth marks left behind. "I can already imagine how good my tongue could make you feel on that pretty cunt of yours, doesn't that sound nice? I could make you feel so good. You'd love it. I think they'd love to watch me eat you, too."
The reminder of the audience is sobering. White-hot humiliation floods your veins, inundating your brain. They've all lost that larkish edge, giving way for something far more decadent; they look like they're starving. A newfound tension riddling them. Your mouth clamps shut, stifling your moans.
If Hongjoong weren't in the way, you'd cover yourself.
He sinks his teeth into the fat of your breast. Lightly at first, slowly increasing the pressure until you cannot muffle your cry. You yank at his hair, attempting to dislodge him, and he groans.
A string of spit connects him to your nipple when he separates from you.
"Don't get shy on me now." His tongue lolls out to circle your nipple as he looks up at you. A feral glint in his eyes.
"I'm not," you mumble.
Hongjoong rises, running a finger down your middle. He pushes your robe off to drape over the slab beneath you. "If you say so."
His thumb peels your pussy open. Watches it contract, pulsing. He murmurs, "there you go. All pretty and puffed up down here."
His middle finger teases your slit, watching it quiver around nothing. Your hips chase after it, trying to press yourself into him to push his finger in.
Hongjoong tuts, "you're so desperate to be filled. Have patience."
"I do," you huff. "I just-"
Hongjoong smacks your thigh, hissing. "Quiet."
You shut your mouth.
"Keep up the attitude, and I must just stuff this little hole full with no prep," he grumbles. "Rip your virgin cunt in half. Fuckin' ruin it." His hand encases your pussy, three fingers pressed to your slit, threatening. "Is that what you want? Want me to break you so early on?"
You panic, thrashing. "No, no, no. I'll be good. I'll be perfect—don't do it. Don't. Can't take it."
Hongjoong's head tilts. "Does what you want matter?"
Fear chokes you. It hunkers down inside your chest and makes it hard to breathe. Your heart rate is picking up. A sheen of tears coating your eyes. You shake your head.
"So you're not stupid," he comments. "Do you think I should be nice to you when you're being so rude to me in front of my men?"
You're scared. You want to flee, to run. It's not like you're tied up. There's nothing holding you here. Yet, you don't move. You lie there, trapped, staring into the dark oblivion of Hongjoong's eyes.
There's nowhere to go. Nowhere you'd rather be.
At this moment, you realize that this is the closest Hongjoong has ever gotten to God. He looks like Him. With his violence and obstinacy—his overwhelming nature. Him in the flesh. You can feel it. That dreadful awe. Righteous terror. You, the sacrifice. The sinner and the feast. Him, the blade. The hand of judgment.
A tear slips down your temple. "No, I don't. I don't know anything. I'm sorry. Sorry for thinking."
Hongjoong coos, seemingly placated. "That's okay. You know better now. Girls don't think. That's not what you're made for."
He slides his index in.
"You're meant to appreciate, to take what I give you." He intones. "You're made for me, so I'll decide what you get and what you'll give. I own you. Every single inch. From that silly brain to the tips of your toes. Do you understand?"
You nod emphatically.
Hongjoong's fingers aren't long, not like Seonghwa's had been—they're shorter, just a tad longer than your own, but they're thicker. One is hardly anything but it's still noticeable. His finger flexes, bending, grazing something inside of you. Your hand scrambles for something to hold onto, scratching uselessly at the slate.
Hongjoong laughs.
A playful, lilting thing. Any signs of anger disintegrated. It's so dissimilar, so antithetical to what you've witnessed, it frightens you.
It chills you to your core. You've never understood the meaning of God-fearing, not in the way everyone else did, but you do now. It's impossible not to looking at Him, at Hongjoong. Divinity oozes off him. You clench around his finger, unthinkingly. He shoves another finger in. There's a faint stretch.
Hongjoong's pace is languid. Shallow thrusts that are angled to constantly bump that sensitive spot inside you. Your head is spinning, dizzy. Your hips are undulating to seek more pleasure, to press yourself against him. It is humiliating. The utter amount of need that pours out of you, leaking out your cunt and your eyes and your open mouth. You hadn't realized anything could whittle you down to this.
It's undeniably pleasant. Far better than what your parents taught you. Procreation was always described as perfunctory. For utilitarian purposes only. Strictly for the bedroom and no prying eyes.
His thumb brushes over something and you seize.
"What was-" you gasp, strained. "That felt-"
"Amazing, I know," Hongjoong fills in for you, does it again to hear you mewl. "I knew you'd love it. Never doubt me again. You don't know what's good for you. You don't know anything, but since you want to know I can tell you. That was your clit, baby."
Flattening his thumb against it, he strokes it absentmindedly. Rubbing up and down. Down and up. He's stopped thrusting, focusing his attention on your clit. Pressure builds in your tummy. A distinct tightness in your lower abdomen. Forthcoming. It's approaching faster than you can think. Your moaning, writhing. Hongjoong uses a hand to capture your hip, curbing your movements.
"Beg me." Hongjoong says.
You reach out for him, but he slaps your hands away. Tears blur your vision. Your chest is heaving. Your heart a hammer in your ribcage.
"Please, Joongie. Please," you babble. "I need it. Need you. I can't do it without you."
Hongjoong giggles. A boyish, fleeting sound. "Please what? You don't even know what you're asking for."
He's right. You don't know what you're asking for, but you know that you want it. You want it so badly. You want so much it hurts. An ache only he can fix. You know that it's coming, and Hongjoong's not stopping. He's still rubbing sticky circles into your clit. His fingers jammed inside you.
You know that you don't want him to stop.
"I'm gonna- I'm gonnna- I don't know."
He stops.
The comedown is harrowing. It leaves you empty. Gutted and barren. Sanity spilling out of you. Coherence is hard to come by. Pushing out and taking in puffs of air feel Olympian. As if your chest with collapse in on itself. Tears glide down your temples.
"Hongjoong," you mumble, imploring, watery and low.
"Poor thing," he croons. "You don't know what to do with yourself, do you? You don't even know to ask for something. What you want is to cum, baby." His hips roll into you, and you can feel the imprint of him. Blaring and incessant. "Do you know what this is?"
You gulp, fluster. "Your penis."
"No, dummy," he chides. "There's other words."
Your eyebrows pinch together. You weren't taught anything else.
"I don't know."
"There's two different words," he murmurs. "You can either call it a cock or a dick. That's what big girls call it. That's what you'll call it."
"That's so… vulgar."
"Say it."
"Say what?"
"Ask for my cock," he clarifies. "Ask me to fuck you and make you cum on my fingers."
Your mouth shuts, opens. Shuts again. Then opens once more. The words gumming up in your throat, sticking to your stomach lining. You parents were strict about the words you used. You weren't allowed to be crass. You weren't allowed to be dirty. They made sure you always acted like a lady. You weren't even supposed to know cunt or pussy. You found out when something explicit came on TV.
"Please f-"
"I want you to look at them while you do it." Two fingers tapping your cheek. "Show them how pretty you are when you use your manners."
You have to steel yourself.
Gradually, you turn your head, shuddering when you meet their eyes. It's hard to pick one to look at. They all blend together. A black smear in your vision. Sliver glinting like stars. They look ravenous. Their fists balled. Their breathing is deep and intentional. You're debauched, shameful and lewd. Your mouth moves anyway, "please f… fuck me. Please make me cum on your fingers.
"Only my fingers?" he sighs, sulking, plunging three fingers inside you. You jerk at the stretch. More than what you're used to. Is he mad at you again? Is he teasing you?
You can't tell.
"No, no, I want your cock," you amend. "I want all of you. I want everything."
Hongjoong motions for something. Someone places a cup of red wine in his hand. It sploshes around, nearly spilling. He throws his head back and half of it is gone. He bends forward, pursing his lips. He sets the glass down to tap your cheek. Your mouth opens. He spits it into your mouth, and it comes down like a waterfall. It's tart. Gross. You don't like it.
You swallow what you can, but it dribbles down your cheeks. Hongjoong happily laps up the excess. Ending it with a messy kiss, slurping what he can out of your mouth and stealing your breath.
He leans back to pour the rest from the glass, taking advantage of the leverage to quicken his thrusts. He's snapping his wrist now. Lugging you to the edge. You try to lurch forward, but Hongjoong puts a hand to your chest. He sets the cup back down when you're done.
Sputtering, your cheek bulging around your mouthful. It's so gross. It's absolutely disgusting, but you have to do it. Hongjoong told you to, so you must. He pinches your clit between thumb and pointer, and you gurgle pathetically. Desperately trying not to choke. You're dangling off the edge, and you blubber out a plea, but it comes out wrong. Unintelligible.
"Such a sloppy girl," he tuts, pulling his fingers out of you and breezing past your pleas for more. He grabs your face, smearing slick on your skin. He shakes your head from side to side. "Getting me all dirty."
"Sorry."
“You'll clean it up, won't you?” he coos, sugar-sweet; light as créme.
"Yeah."
His skin tastes like you. Tangy and evidently human. It's not that bad. It's certainly not something you'd do on your own, but you don't hate it. Hongjoong latches his finger onto your tongue, pressing on it. You suckle at them. He thrusts them in. Once, twice. Just to make you gag. He yanks them out, and you smack your lips. The taste lingers.
"What does it taste like?"
Unsure, you answer. "It tastes like me."
"Let me see."
For some reason, your vision is fuzzy, and it softens Hongjoong. It makes him look cherubic, light limning his body and radiating off of him.
Hongjoong's mouth is wine-warmed and bitter. His lips are velvety and nice. It's a sweet kiss. It's more tender than what you'd expect from him. His mouth tastes like salvation; deliverance. Like love, Like being lured to the light at the end of all roads. It's a comforting thing. As if you're being bled so gently, you don't realize you're dying. It is dreamy, untouched by reality. Hongjoong draws back. His cheeks are flushed pink and his lips are ruby red.
Deliberately, Hongjoong unties his robes, and it rolls off his shoulders. Showcasing his pectorals and the divots of his collarbones. He opens it up to reveal his cock. It's not long, but it's thick. Wide. His tip is ruddy and glistening.
He taps his cock against your clit. You twitch, hole clenching around nothing. He spreads you open, presses the head of his cock against your pussy, thrusts to coat the underside of his cock in your slick. The tip bumping your clit at every pass. He's taunting you, keeping you on the brink but never giving you enough.
"Joongie," you hiccup. "Don't do that."
“Don't do what, baby?” he says, jutting his lip out in a faux pout. Another thrust. “tell me what you want. Tell me and I'll think about giving it to you, how about that?"
"Want you to fuck me," you snivel.
Hongjoong lays a kiss on your open mouth.
“One more time,” he breathes, nearly reverent, a touch whiny.
“Fuck me, please,” you wail, sniffling.
With a startling amount of strength, Hongjoong flips you onto both knees. There's dull pain in your knees, but it gets eclipsed by the sudden fullness. He rams his cock in with one stroke. It aches. It hurts. He's so thick. He's tearing you open, splitting you apart.
He doesn't let up, doesn't grace you with any reprieve. He moves immediately. Drilling a hole only he can fill, branding you. He's trying to gut you, to make you into a proper sacrifice, you think. That must be it. That must be why. You're ripping. Your hole is so full, too full. Stretched to its limits.
You scramble, blubbering. "Hurts. It hurts. S'too much. Can't take it."
Your slobbering, drool trickles out your parted mouth, pooling on the stone beneath you. It mixes with the tears running down your face. Your eyes snap shut.
Hongjoong grunts, "open your eyes."
Your eyes peel open, and you blink away the tears obscuring your vision. It doesn't work. The force of his thrusts jerk you forward, scraping your knees. You can do nothing but sniffle, whimpering. He pulls your head to the side, gritting out, "look at them while I fuck you."
They're nothing more than a bunch of splotches. Hardly resembling a human anymore. It doesn't hurt anymore. It's starting to feel good. The drag of him against your wall. The sting of his skin hitting your skin. His balls smacking against your clit. Your cries have shifted into moans.
"Look at them." He grips your hair. "Fucking look at them. Don't look away. Don't close your eyes."
You hadn't realized your eyes were closed. Keeping them open is harder than you thought, but fear is a great motivator. You're not looking at them—not really. It's unseeing, practically looking through them.
“Come closer.” he orders.
It takes you a second to realize he's not talking to you. The sound of their boots hitting the floor is deafening, bouncing off the walls. Echoing. Although, it gets muffled by the squelching of your pussy, the echo of your desperate moaning, his deranged rambling.
“Isn't she the perfect whore?” he asks, voice thick. “Her virgin cunt takes my cock so well. She was born for this. Made for me.”
Your cunt quivers around him, at how crude he is, at how he talks about you. The praise sears through you, caramelizing your blood. Melting in your mouth like chocolate.
"You're so tight," he groans. "Tell me you're mine. Tell me how much you love it."
"Love you, love your cock," you squeal. "I'm yours. Jus' yours. Forever."
Hongjoong's pace increases inexplicably. Without rhyme or reason, he fucks into like he's gone feral, like he's trying to dig into you. His hand splays out over your back, pushing your chest down. Your back cracks. Your lungs ache from the strain. It's hard to breathe like this. Worsened by the fact that like this, he's going impossibly deep that it knocks the air out of your lungs.
“You're mine. All mine.” he chants, slowing down. "Fuck, m'close. Gonna cum inside you. Gonna make you mine in every possible way. Breed you full."
He curls over you, wrapping his arm around you to hold you to his chest. He's scorching to the touch. Molten-gold. Bleeding-sun. He can't truly thrust anymore. There's not enough room. He can't pull himself away to fuck you anymore. Instead, he grinds into you. Quick, shallow bunny humps. He brings to fingers to clumsily rub your clit.
"You come after me," he breathes. "Not a second before."
The pleasure grows needling. You convulse. Your toes curl and pop. Your eyes roll up into your skull. You howl like a wounded animal, trying to run from the pleasure, from the intensity of it all. You want to get away. You want to be obedient, but it's difficult.
Hongjoong's hand leaves you and comes down with a wet smack. You yelp. Your entire body is taut from the strain of holding it in. The pleasure takes you hostage. It keeps you suspended. Your cunt clamps down on him like a vice, slick trailing down your thighs.
He cums from that, bores his teeth into your shoulder. He lets out tiny huffs through his nose. Slaps your cunt again, angling it flat over your clit. Your orgasm spears you, cleaving you in half, cracking through your bones like a spatch-cocked chicken. Euphoria. Pure ecstasy. That's what this is. It feels like warmth, like love. Like everything you've ever wanted.
Hongjoong doesn't stop until you've gone limp. Dried out and boneless. Little, gaspy moans escaping you. Too tired to attempt to squirm away from him or knock his hand off your tender clit.
Steadily, his breath evens out, and allows your body to drift away from his own. You slump, sagging onto your stomach. Peering between your legs, he grins. "Make sure all of it stays inside of her. I don't want a drop wasted"
He doesn't have to look at them for them to know who he's talking to. After all, they're the ones in charge of your aftercare.
Petting your head, Hongjoong says, “don't worry, they're going to clean you up. I take care of what’s mine after all.”
In the famous painting, God’s touch becomes Adam.
Or He nearly touches, proving desire, not God, is the father
of man. Still the question: What does He want with Adam’s body?
To take it back, take Adam into His arms?
Maybe God too feels regret and longing?
God-like is God-damned. No father can be trusted.
part 2 to this | sh is degrading as fuck to yh lol | petplay - yunhwa x reader (femhwa)
( because you begged <3 @atinyprincesss @n01likeu )
“just ignore him, baby,” she whispered in your ear, taking your hand off his neck and placing it on her own. your thumb stroked her skin. you nodded, forward leaning into her.
you both were perched in yunho’s lap, but seonghwa commanded your full attention. he whined underneath you, hand settled on your back, but he didn’t dare try to take your attention away from her. “you give him far too much attention. now he thinks he’s entitled to it.” her hand cups your cheek, you lean into it, eyes never leaving hers. “you understand?”
“yes ma’am,” your voice is soft.
“good girl,” she smiles, placing a small kiss on your lips. she scoots you toward her, hand resting on your back. her lips are soft against your own. they taste faintly of spearmint and vanilla. it’s familiar. safe. her tongue slips into your mouth, and you moan at the feeling of it against yours. when she pulls back, there’s a faint string of saliva connecting your mouths. she presses her middle finger to your lips, and you welcome it. you wrap your mouth around it, tongue circling the tip.
yunho shifts just slightly. his hard on presses into your thigh. seonghwa grabs him by the hair, forcing his head to look directly at you. “she’s pretty, isn’t she?”
“yes ma’am,” he nearly chokes when she jerks his head back, yanking him by the hair. she looks down at the tent in his underwear, the leaking tip of his cock stands out through the thin fabric.
“dogs don’t fucking talk,” she slips her finger from your mouth. “listen to me.” she pats her hand on his cheek. it glistens with your spit. he sits patiently, lips parted slightly. you can’t help but think he looks like a thirsty dog. panting with need. “if you fucking come,” her voice drops, a shiver running down both of your spines, “i won’t let you in this bedroom for a week. and you’ll have to fucking beg if you wanna be let on that couch.” she slaps him, and a desperate whine falls from his lips. “do you understand me?”
his eyes slide to you on instinct. a dark chuckle comes from seonghwa, deep in her chest. he yelps when she tightens her grip on his hair. “ohhh what? am i too mean? you want mommy to make the rules around here? if i left her in charge of you, you’d piss in the bed, and she’d still let you sleep in it.”
she presses her lips to his cheek, “mommy’s not gonna help you this time. you’re gonna be my little bitch. and you’re gonna fucking like it.”
tears well up in your eyes, “hwa…” you can’t help the little pout on your face. “don’t be so mean.”
she lets go of him, racing to cup your face gently, thumbs wiping your tears off your cheeks, “shhhh, it’s okay, baby. he needs to learn the rules. if he’s good, which i’m sure he will be, you can hold him when we’re done. alright, mommy?”
you nod, biting your lip. “okay…”
“that’s my good girl.” she’s pulls you forward, into her lap, your clothed cunt pressed up against hers. “forget about him for a second. focus on me and you. let me make you feel good.” she cups her hands over your hips, dragging your pussy over her own.
you moan softly, and seonghwa merely hums with enjoyment. “thereeee you go.” she keeps moving your hips, circling them forward, the seem of your panties drags against your clit. “does that feel good?”
“yes..”
she pats your ass, “stand up, pretty girl. let’s get these panties off of you.” you stand up, legs wobbly on the bed. she slides them down your legs, helping you step out of them. you move to sit back down but she stops you, “hold on, mommy.” she helps you turn around, your ass right in her face. she slaps it playfully, spreading it. like she’s inspecting you. it sends a shiver down your spine. “want a treat from your mommy, mutt?”
you don’t even have to look to know the desperate nod he just gave her. she moves you again, this time standing you right above his face. yunho nearly dives right between your legs, but seonghwa stops him. “no one told you it was okay to eat. why do you seem to struggle with rules so much?” her hand is back in his hair, “just look at it. pretty, right?” he nods. “you think you deserve a taste?” he shakes his head. he’s learning. he doesn’t deserve anything. “that’s right. it’s not for you to taste. mutts don’t get mommy’s pussy. at least not to taste it.” she pulls him a little closer, your legs are shaking now. “but i’m feeling a little gracious so,” she presses a finger under his chin, “i’ll let you in there. but if i see you even try to open your mouth, you’re punishment will be so much worse. understand?”
he nods. she leans him back on the headboard, his neck secured by pillows.
“just sit down, baby,” she pats your thigh.
you hesitate, “hwa..”
“it’s okay, baby. he can take it. this is what good puppies do.” she chuckles, “and you know he wants so bad to have even a little taste of mommy’s pussy.”
you swallow hard, letting some of your weight shift back, sitting down on his face. he doesn’t move. just inhaling your scent. he’s being so good. you’re so proud of him. just taking the little bit he’s given even though you know he wants so much more. seonghwa pressed his face deeper, his nose right in your ass.
seonghwa looks down at the tent in his pants. it’s clear just a little bit of stimulation would be enough to push him over. she brings her hand between his legs, slapping at the underside of his shaft through his boxers. he moans. loud. straight into your pussy.
she just laughs. enjoying the effect she has over the both of you. she thinks he might suffocate if she leaves him up to his own discretion—taking everything he can get. she pats your thigh, lifting you off his face.
his face is bright red as she helps you sit back down. he’s panting, but there’s not an ounce of distress on his face. he’s pussy drunk.
she sets you between his legs, letting you lean back against him, but your ass is strategically placed right on top of his cock. you can feel the wet spot against your skin.
you watch as she shuffles down the bed, ending right between your legs. she throws one leg over your shoulder, one of her hands pressed against your stomach.
her eyes lock with yunho when she licks the first stripe up your sweet cunt. something he can only dream of. she hums with delight, sucking your clit. she releases it with a “pop.”
your hand falls to her hair, they thread through the short strands. “hwa…”
“you taste so good, mommy,” she groans, “i can’t believe you’re all. mine. to taste.” she dives back in.
your back arches with a desperate moan. yunho whimpers when your ass rolls over his cock. he licks the taste of you off his lips, desperately trying to recover any hint of your taste. seonghwa’s too distracted to notice. the bridge of her nose grinds against your clit as her tongue fucks your hole. you roll your hips again.
yunho is shaking at this point. it’s all too much. the scent of you still lingering in front of his face, your ass rolling against his leaking cock, the sweet desperation of your moans as you get closer. he can’t handle it. if you don’t come soon, he won’t make it.
your legs shake, but seonghwa holds you down, “come whenever you’re ready, baby. let me feel you.” you hand tightens in her hair when you do come, back arching, ass digging into yunho’s cock.
he tries to hide it. he really does. but seonghwa’s keen ears could never miss the desperate whine that falls from his lips. or the deep shudder through his body. and when she lifts you off of him, it’s clear as day.
the cum leaking through the fabric. but unfortunately, he doesn’t even know the worst of what she has in store.
Since I'm already complaining, tumblr taking the dates off of posts pissed me off so badly. I didn't realize how much I check when things are posted until now. I don't why but there's something satisfying about knowing exactly when something was posted. It helped me sleep at night. Now the uncertainty is killing me.
PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS! dark, heavy content. heavily implied if not explicit sex trafficking/forced prostitution. non-consensual sexual activity—no physical force used, but you are unable to consent or refuse. yunho is not a good man. alcohol. fingering. leather. physical violence. yunho has sadistic tendencies. spanking. thigh riding. burning with a cigarette. mentions of child abuse & trafficking (not by yunho). there’s a glimmer of hope towards the end, but this is bleak.
final warning. this is dark and triggering. this does not reflect yunho or my perception of him; he is simply the inspiration for my own characters.
words: 4.8k
He doesn’t tell you anything about him. For a moment, he doesn’t even speak.
It’s not unusual. They’re always like this at first. Closed off, guarded, stiff. It’s the shame; the nerves. The knowledge of what they’re doing, how wrong it is; the fear that they’re being set up that doesn’t really settle until they’ve buried themselves inside you.
Yunho—you know his name, at least—doesn’t have any of that. None of the nerves; none of the shame. He seems at peace, at ease; that’s the first thought you have when you see him. He’s in the armchair, facing the door when you enter, a glass of whiskey held in one hand, the other lying on the armrest. He’s not like the men you’ve had before.
Most of them have something off about them, about their appearance; some of them are dirty, unkept, their clothes worn and their beards patchy and uneven. Some of them look so well-kept it feels like an act. A performance. Whether it’s meant for you, or for themselves, or perhaps a wife waiting for them at home, you don’t know. But there’s always something—and it’s never anything you haven’t seen before.
But Yunho looks normal. Tidy. His black shirt, a turtleneck, is ironed, no wrinkles or creases,his black slacks well-fitted. His jacket, dark leather, is draped nearly over the back of his chair. Even the messier things, like his hair that looks a little out of place and the glasses sitting a little down the bridge of his nose, feels like he’s done it on purpose. He’s wearing gloves, too, black leather, tight around his fingers and palm, and his face is expressionless. He doesn’t look like the sort of men you usually find in these rooms.
The only thing that sticks out to you is his eyes. The darkness to them; the small, slight glimmer that keeps them from outright emptiness. When they rake over you for the first time, looking you up and down, taking you in, like an auctioneer appraising their stock, he looks completely impassive.
You don’t know if you’ve ever had that before. You’ve seen a lot of different emotions in people’s eyes, lots of different secrets—shame, nerves, wives, children, careers an exchange like this would burn to the ground. You’ve seen predation, danger; the expression of a butcher all too eager to cut into the flesh. You’ve gotten good at reading them. But you’ve never seen this; you don’t know what it is. Almost nothing—almost hollow—but not quite.
You lock the door behind you, putting the keycard down on the table; he’s already slipped his own into the socket to turn on the lights. Your fingers hover on it for the moment, lingering on the plastic then trailing across the wood. It feels cheap, worn, as plasticky as the card, but it doesn’t matter. Yunho clears his throat, his hand moving in a familiar gesture. You slip off your coat and let it fall to the floor.
“You’re pretty,” he says. His voice is deep, masculine but not throaty; not rough. He sounds assured; even from those two words you can imagine him in a position of authority. You can imagine him commanding a room without much effort. “You dressed up for me,” he notes.
You nod. It was an odd request; you’re used to weird ones, typical ones, like school uniforms and office wear with the skirt too short and even those tacky nurse outfits you find in Halloween stores. Latex is another common one; nylon too. But Yunho—Yunho had asked for leather. High quality, tailored leather.
“You look lovely,” he says. “Such a pretty girl.
Underwear?”
“The c-string you got me, sir.” You feel it every time you move; it’s uncomfortable, a stick-on one with lace on the outside and adhesive on the inside, attaching itself to your pubic bone then thinning out, softer, more gentle cotton against your cunt, then a more rigid section, boned like a corset, held in place by your ass cheeks.
“Very good,” Yunho says. “Mind if I inspect it?”
“I’d like to please you, sir.”
A rehearsed response; he doesn’t seem to enjoy it, as they often don’t. It’s always been a hit or a miss; some fall for it, for the blind obedience and desperation to please, whether for ignorance or for their ego’s sake, thrilled at the thought of a woman who wants nothing more than to satisfy them; others see through it. Understand it to be nothing more than the fruits of another man’s labour; training, not instinct. Of those, some of them enjoy it; others view it as a wall, a barrier for them to break. They want to be the one to see you for who you are. None of them ever will be. Not within Isaiah’s reach.
Yunho doesn’t comment on it. He beckons you closer with two fingers and takes another sip from the glass, eyes never leaving you for a second. You’re slow to approach him, feet shuffling against the floor; you don’t feel confident in these heels, the platforms too high up and the stiletto too thin, but Yunho had asked you to wear them and you’d obliged. His gaze never quite makes it down there, though, or at least never lingers long enough for you to notice.
You stop in front of him, a few centimetres between your legs and his; the hand resting on the armchair snakes around your hip, a large gloved hand coming to sit on your lower back. The bottom of his hand, his ring and pinkie fingers and a small sliver of his palm, rest against the top of your ass. You can’t feel much through the two layers of leather, but in the heaviness of his touch you feel the strength, the steadiness, the sense of authority and possession that makes itself obvious in the energy surrounding him.
He’s certain of himself. He knows everything that happens here is on his terms.
“How old are you?” He asks.
“How old would you like me to be?”
He smiles softly, briefly, almost gently, and shakes his head. “The truth please, little girl. Not fantasy. We’ve plenty of time for that.”
You tell him your age; quietly, lowly, like it’s a shameful secret. Yunho nods. If he feels any type of way about it, he doesn’t let it show.
“You’re young.”
“Not really,” you reply. You’ve seen a lot younger. You know Isaiah’s brought girls younger than you here; so have the other men in the other hotels across town. You’ve seen them in the clubs, back when Isaiah used to have you dance.
“I don’t do that sort of thing,” Yunho says.
“What do you do?”
“Nothing I’m proud of. But nothing illegal, either.”
“All of this is illegal.”
“You know what I mean.”
You do. You nod, swallowing; Yunho’s gaze moves downwards, finally settling for a moment on the shoes then returning to your face. “Do you know why I chose those for you?” He asks.
“No, sir.”
“Because it takes a lot of effort to wear,” he says. “They’re uncomfortable. They hurt. They make you feel unsure of yourself, of your ability to keep yourself upright. But you wore them anyway.”
“Are you a sadist, sir?” It comes out before you can stop it. “I’m sorry,” you say, ducking your head. “I don’t know why I said that.”
“You can say what you like,” he replies. He seems amused. “I have thick skin. I wouldn’t say I’m a sadist. I don’t enjoy pain for its own sake. But subjecting yourself to discomfort—willingly—for me—that touches me. They’re difficult to walk in, aren’t they?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Isaiah says you’re a dancer.”
He knows Isaiah, you think, a little surprised; they usually don’t. The men find you on their own; Isaiah often has little to do with it. But Yunho knows him. Has spoken to him, at least.
“I was,” you answer. “At a club.”
“Did you wear shoes like these?”
“Not so high.”
His hand travels downwards, across your ass, the sound of leather against leather soft over the silence; it comes to rest against the top of your thigh, cold against your skin, just below the hem of your dress. From the contact, you can tell the leather is expensive; soft but firm, thick but not heavy. The tips of his fingers curl around the edge of your thigh, following the curve, stopping just before your other thigh begins. After a moment, his hand moves, slowly, rising upwards, the bottom of your dress coming with it. It comes to rest around your waist, bunched up, your lower half now exposed save for the underwear.
He squeezes your cheek, just slightly, then hums in satisfaction. “Soft cheeks,” he murmurs. “Malleable.”
His hand winds back then returns; a loud, sharp smack then a shooting, stinging pain. You gasp, jolting forwards slightly; his hand returns to where it had landed and rubs at the skin soothingly. “You can take a hit,” he says. “A little sting, can’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” you say.
“Your daddy hit you as a kid.”
You open your mouth to respond but find yourself hesitating for a moment, taken aback; Yunho shushes you, shaking his head slightly. “Just say yes,” he whispers.
“Yes,” you say. “He did.”
“With a belt, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Poor thing,” he coos. “Do you miss him? I think you do.”
“Yeah,” you say. “I miss him.”
Yunho hums. He pushes the tips of his fingers in between your thighs, brushing against your covered cunt. Another sip of his whiskey, a longer one this time; the glass, empty now, dangles from his hand in a loose grip; assured, like he knows no matter what he does it won’t fall. His fingers still press against your pussy. “Troubled little thing he made of you,” he says. He puts the glass down on the side table and pulls his other hand away, letting it rest on his thigh. “Dance for me.”
“Yes, sir.”
You start as you usually do, swinging your hips from side to side, slowly, your legs parted slightly. He watches you intently, expression blank but with something sparking in his eyes. Interest, maybe, or perhaps something more complicated.
Still watching you, he takes the decanter and pours himself another glass. “Turn around,” he orders. “Show me your ass.”
He stops you before you can turn fully; “That’s enough,” he says, when you’re turned about halfway. “Just like that. So I can see your face, too.”
For the next few minutes, it’s silent; he watches you, taking small sips from the glass without ever moving his gaze. And you—you dance. You close your eyes, exhaling; you feel like you’re in a daze, your hips, your body moving of its own accord now, like the movements have awoken something that allowed you to slip into muscle memory. Into instinct; into training so deep rooted you fall into it unconsciously.
“You move beautifully,” he tells you. “You could have been a dancer.”
You nod. You could have been a lot of things. Your legs are starting to get tired.
Yunho seems to notice. Or maybe—probably—he’s just bored of this. Ready for something more exciting. “Enough of that,” he says, then pats his thigh. “Come.”
You perch yourself there, his thigh surprisingly firm, strong enough that you’d have no qualms lifting your feet from the ground if you felt inclined to. You don’t know why you’re surprised, really, Yunho is clearly a strong man. It’s evident in the size of him, the weight of his touch, the faint pulsing of pain on your backside. You suppose it’s that he doesn’t look particularly built; he’s not overly muscular, not like some of the men you’ve seen.
His hand curls around your waist and rests in your lap. The other grips your jaw and tilts your head towards him. The glass of whiskey lies half-finished on the table. “Do you smoke?” He asks. You shake your head. “Try.” He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, then a lighter. “Open up a little.” He pushes a cigarette between your lips, a little way into your mouth. “Hold it between your teeth. Don’t bite.” Once you’ve obeyed, once he knows you’re holding the cigarette steady, he lights it up.
The first inhale makes you gasp, splutter; it’s a weird feeling, almost suffocating, like standing in smog or sucking on a tailpipe. It makes your throat close up and your eyes water; you cough, a chesty sound, and Yunho pats your back. “Easy,” he murmurs. He’s holding the cigarette now; he caught it between his thumb and forefinger when you let it fall from your mouth. “It’s rough, huh?”
“Yes, sir.” You’re still wheezing slightly, your voice strained.
“I’m surprised you don’t smoke,” he says. “They usually do.”
“It never appealed to me.”
“What does?”
You shrug. You dare to think Yunho looks a little sad for you. He takes a long drag of the cigarette, eyes closing for a moment, sighing, then puts it down on the table, still lit. Ash spills and settles atop the wood. His hand returns to your jaw. “I want you to keep your eyes on me,” he says. “Do you want me to touch you?”
“Please, sir.”
“Your hands stay in your lap. Your eyes on me. I like obedience. Try to impress me.”
“Yes, sir.”
First, his hand curls around your thigh. The leather feels impersonal. Cold in every sense. Then it moves, peeling the adhesive of the c-string away from your crotch and pulling it free. Your cunt is bare now; fully exposed. For a moment he just looks at it. “You shave,” he says. “Your preference, or someone else’s?”
“Both.”
“It’s my preference too.” He presses two fingers to your clit, pushing at it, then pulls away. “You have a beautiful cunt. So ripe.”
“It’s all for you, sir.”
He hums. He’s still staring at it. “Tonight, at least.”
His fingers move down, sinking between your folds and spreading them apart. He pulls at them a bit, upwards; you follow the movement, lifting your hips and pointing them outwards slightly to get a better look. He glances up at you, brow tilted, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Smart girl,” he says. “Intuitive. Do you like it when I touch you here?”
“Yes sir.”
“It feels different with the gloves, doesn’t it?”
“Yes sir.”
“Clinical.”
“Yes sir.”
“But you’re still wet.”
You nod. The tips of his fingers push into the opening of your cunt, just a little, like testing the waters. “Tight,” he says. “Clenching around me. Oh, she loves me, doesn’t she?”
“She does.”
“She wants to be stretched.”
“Yes sir.”
“If I take the glove off, you’ll make it worth my while, won’t you?”
“Yes sir.”
He pulls out, then pulls the glove off, putting it down on the table. His hand is large, fingers long and slender. There’s a ring around his index finger, gold and expensive looking. His other hand, still gloved, sits on your hip as he eases two fingers inside you again. You shudder, exhaling; he clicks his tongue. “So warm,” he hums, almost crooning. “Soft, too. Does that feel nice?”
You nod, swallowing; with the thick leather of the glove you felt full, stretched, but the feeling of his skin is something entirely different. Still, it hardly feels intimate; just coldness of a different kind.
His fingers push deeper, sinking in further until they’re pressing against your g-spot. You bite your lip, trying to stay quiet; Yunho shakes his head, pulling his fingers out some then pushing them back in, hard and deep. You choke, whining, and he breathes out a laugh, squeezing your hip. “I want to hear you,” he says, staring to thrust his fingers. “I want all of you. No hiding.”
“Yes sir,” you whisper.
Yunho is clearly good at this, his movements precise, but he doesn’t seem particularly focused, particularly bothered. You get the sense that he’s simply working you open. Taking stock of you, too, perhaps; seeing how you respond to him. Testing you.
It’s not unusual. There’s no reason for them to care for your pleasure, of course; they’re the ones paying after all. You’re just the product for sale.
“How many men have been in here?” He asks, voice low, even. He doesn’t seem bothered, really; just curious. Maybe he’s trying to embarrass you; to remind you of what you are. How dirty; how tainted. He’s curling his fingers as he speaks, stroking your g-spot in small circles. “You probably don’t even know, do you?”
“No sir.” You couldn’t even estimate. You prefer not to try.
“Poor little thing,” he replies. “You shouldn’t be here. Pretty thing like you, you should be someone’s house pet. Not a whore.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’d be a good house pet, I think,” he says. “Obedient. Quiet. Seen and not heard, that’s what I like. You’d be good at that, wouldn’t you?”
“I would be.”
It’s already your mantra. It’s easier, safer that way. Isaiah prefers you that way, too, always has; he doesn’t like the sound of your voice, says you’re prettier in silence.
“Would you do as I tell you to do?” Yunho asks. His fingers move back and forth now, stroking at you gently, slowly, but firmly. “I’d never have to punish you, would I? I reckon Isaiah’s trained you well.”
“He has.”
Yunho hums. “But I think you’re naturally well behaved, too. Pliant. Accepting pain for the sake of it, just to please me. I could put you over my knee and you’d just lie there and take it. You ever been whipped?”
“Belted.”
“Oh yes.” He nods, smiling. “Good girl. You know what I want to hear. Would you let me belt you? Just like your daddy did?”
“If you wanted to.”
“I’m not in the mood for it now,” he says. “If you were mine, though, I would. Make you cry. Make it hard to sit. Just for my own amusement.”
“If I were yours, you could do as you like to me.”
“That’s right.” He sounds approving. His fingers pull out some then thrust in deeper, firmer, like a reward. “I’d do it whenever you needed it. Or whenever I wanted to. In front of people, too. I have some friends who’d like to see it.”
“Would you let them belt me too?”
His brows lift, a faint sort of surprise on his face. Pleasant surprise, it seems. “That’s a good idea, doll. Maybe I would. And they’d fuck you, too. I’d show you off. Show how well I’ve trained you, how I keep you disciplined.”
“I’d take it.”
“I know you would. And you’ll be good for me tonight, won’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
His fingers pull out, coated in wetness. He wipes them down on his pants, a faint sheen glistening against the black fabric. His hands come to rest on your hips. His voice comes low, soft, almost gentle, his gaze soft as he meets your eyes. “You know I’m going to hurt you, doll.” There’s a solemnity to it, like he’s breaking bad news to you, informing you of a fate he has no control over. He almost sounds regretful; like this is simply the tragic but certain reality. A sentence he has no choice but to carry out.
You nod. “How badly?”
“Nothing you’ll feel for too long.”
“Thank you.”
He pats his thigh. “Come sit,” he says. “Let’s put some colour in those cheeks.”
He moves you himself; one leg on each side, then his hands on your hips lowering you until you’re straddling his thigh. “Stick your ass out,” he says. “Arch your back.”
His hand comes to rest on your ass cheek, grabbing a handful of it and squeezing. “I’m going to spank you,” he says. “And you’ll get off on it.”
“Yes sir.”
His hand pulls away, winding back, then lands. The sound hits you before the pain—it’s loud, like a gunshot, knocking the wind out of your chest before you even feel the sting. When it does come, though, it’s intense; heavy, sharp, burning, blooming across the expanse of your cheek. His other hand, still gloved, resting on your thigh, tightens its grip, the tips of his fingers pressing into the skin. Another hit, on the same cheek, then on the other. You make a noise of pain, falling forwards; the hand on your thigh moves to wrap around your waist and tugs you back into position. “Easy,” he murmurs. Another hit. “It’s not so bad. And it feels good, doesn’t it?”
This time, when he hits you, the arm around your waist moves too, pushing you forwards a little. It presses your cunt into his thigh, rubbing against the material of his slacks as it’s forced forward. Your breath hitches, eyes squeezing shut, and Yunho chuckles. “Yeah, it feels good,” he says. He presses his fingers into your cheek, the blunts of his nails digging into the pained flesh hard enough to make your eyes water. When you open them again, he’s staring at you, at your face, and smiling softly. Knowingly. Satisfied. He loves this.
“Sir,” you breathe.
Another hit. “Say it again.” Another.
“Sir.” It comes out as a whine, your lip wobbling, composure threatening to break as the hits speed up.
He picks up the lighter and the pack of cigarettes he’d put on the side table next to the whiskey and lights one up, clasping it between his teeth. “Start moving,” he says. “Grinding. Get off on the pain.”
He keeps hitting you, over and over. Sometimes he takes a drag of the cigarette as he does so. Sometimes he clutches it between two fingers, a loose grip, the same way he was holding the glass earlier, while his other hand lands on your ass over and over. It’s casual, almost, the movements, the way he’s holding himself. He’s lounging in the chair, leaned back, legs spread; like this is nothing more than passive entertainment for him. Something typical.
There’s an intensity to it, too, though. To him. In his eyes, you think it is; a dim, dull glint but a glint nonetheless. An interest and a desire he doesn’t let onto. Something deep rooted and bordering on primal.
Your entire backside is stinging now, and your cunt is sensitive, both from the stimulation and the feeling of the material of his pants rubbing harshly against it. You don’t know how red you are now, don’t dare to look, but Yunho hits hard. Like he’s had practice—lots of it.
You wonder where from. Often with these men, it’s from other girls like you, who absorb the violence and perversions they can’t let show to their wives, their girlfriends; women they respect. Sometimes it’s from their own children. For some men, you’ve learned, the violence is indiscriminate.
Yunho seems too controlled for that. Too calm. He’s hurting you because he wants to, not because he needs to. Not because he’s lost his cool.
“You take it so well,” he says, almost cooing. “So brave. You’re well conditioned, aren’t you?”
Another. Another. He pauses for a moment, grabbing the bottom of your dress and lifting it up, over your stomach, over your tits until they’re exposed. He whistles lowly, grabbing a handful of your breast and squeezing. When he pulls away his nails have left indents in your skin. He lands a heavy handed smack on each of them then returns to your ass. It’s gone past stinging now, more of a burn, a scorching pain, the skin surely swollen. It’s so heavy and intense you’re hardly conscious of your pussy, of the fact that you’ve been grinding back and forth on his thigh the whole time. You look down; the fabric is glistening. Your face burns. Letting him do this is one thing; following his orders another. But you’re getting off on it. Leaking, dripping over it. This is the inescapable proof.
“I’d hit you just like this if you were mine,” he says. “Every time you ride me. Every time you’re in my lap. You’d always be red and sore in my house. S’what pretty little things like you deserve, isn’t it?”
You nod, still grinding, quickly getting too overwhelmed to speak. Yunho grins. “Whore,” he spits. “You love this, sick little thing.”
“S— sir,” you gasp, squirming, as another hit lands. You wonder if his hand hurts, but if it is he’s keeping it to himself. “Please.”
“Please what?” He asks.
You shake your head. You don’t even know what you’re crying for. He knows it.
“You’ve gone dumb, haven’t you?” He says. “Humping me while I hurt you, it’s gone to your head.”
“Please,” you repeat. “Yunho. Sir.”
“You don’t know what you want,” he says. “You don’t need to. You shouldn’t know what you want. Knowing what you want, saying what you want, that’s the sort of thing I’d have to beat out of you.”
“Told you you’re a smart girl, huh? Take another puff. Open your mouth.”
He pushes the cigarette in; this time he holds it there, firm, until you breathe it in. You don’t splutter as much this time. He watches you impassively, but the corners of his lips quirk. “Feels good, huh?” He murmurs, taking the cigarette back and taking another puff. “Easy to get addicted to.”
“Are you? Addicted?”
“I wonder the same,” he says. “But I’ll die young anyway.”
The hits have stopped now, but you’re still moving, too well-trained to do anything but. Yunho digs his fingers into your ass, the pained sensitive skin there, then wraps his arm around your waist. His grip is firm, like he’s holding you in place. There’s more force to it than there was before.
He takes one last, long puff, then pushes the butt into your chest. You jolt, crying out, thrashing slightly but his grip only tightens. His gaze is fixed on your chest, on the cigarette pressed against your skin; only once you’ve stopped struggling, cries fading into quiet whimpers, does he pull it away. He puts it down on the table, next to the first, then takes another sip of the whiskey. You’re surprised he’s not tipsy now, knowing how strong it is, but if anything he looks more steady and in control than he did when you got here.
“You sound pretty when you’re hurting,” he says. “Melodic. Like you’re singing.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Both of his hands are on your hips now. For a moment he just looks at you. You fight the instinct to squirm or shrink under his gaze.
When he speaks, his voice is as soft as it’s ever been. Almost sincere. “I could get you out of here,” he says. “I’d pay for you. Handsomely.”
He’s not the first to offer, but Isaiah wouldn’t allow it. He doesn’t look surprised to hear it. “I can be persuasive,” Yunho says. “You don’t belong here.”
“I—”
“Don’t say no,” he cuts you off. “Think about it. We have time. Isaiah will tire of you.”
“I know.”
“Next time I see you, wear something innocent,” he says. “Something white. Linen. Like a church girl. Same shoes.”
His hands pull away, and he stands up. You realise now just how large he is, how he dwarfs you, how easily he could overpower you—could overpower Isaiah.
“Are you leaving?” You ask, surprised. “You haven’t even fucked me.”
“The first time I fuck you, you’ll belong to me. Today I just wanted to hurt you a bit.”
“Didn’t you pay a lot of money?”
“I have plenty,” he says. “I didn’t pay to fuck you. I paid to see if I might want to, and I do.”
“Is this what you always do? When you see girls like me? Appraise them?”
“Sometimes,” he says. “Usually I hurt them worse. I like to leave a mark. But you’re fragile. You’re soft. I know you can take it, you proved yourself to me, but when I really hurt you, I want to do it in the right way.”
“What way is that?”
“In my house,” he replies. “Under my care. At my feet.”
You don’t know what to say; he doesn’t seem to expect you to. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead and cupping your cunt. His hand is warm, hot even, perhaps from having impacted your ass over and over again. “Be a good girl,” he whispers. “I’ll be back for you.”
He shrugs on his jacket and walks out without another glance at you. Your panties are in his pocket.
Pulling off the heels, you take your phone out of your coat. Isaiah is asking how it went. He won’t be happy to hear Yunho hadn’t fucked you. He likes it when you keep them there, when you keep their interest, convincing them to drop extra cash for additional services. You don’t think you could have convinced Yunho.
I’ll be back for you, he’d said. You don’t think you believe him.
this is very spur of the moment and rushed; i really, really wanted to write something with yunho and this song. there’s remnants of this i’ve drawn from experience. if any of it feels familiar, consider the sort of situation you’re in and reach out for help. exploitation is rarely as overt as it is in the movies. love🖤🖤🖤
A/n: this was supposed to be a rewrite, but I basically made an entirely new fic but with the same premise. Hope you still enjoy it. - from the writer formerly known as m1rotics.
Warnings: Dubcon, Reader is implied to have been given up to Hongjoong, Power Imbalance, Manipulation, Light Misogyny, Exhibitionism, Forced Caretaking, Pussy Inspection, Degradation, Groping, Body Worship, Light Fear Play, Dumbification, Slight Intoxication Play, Spit Play, Threats, Orgasm Control, Virginity Kink. Religious imagery is used + it gets blasphemous in usual cult fashion.
The room is neat and monochromatic.
The bed cover is black, the curtains are a dark grey, and the sheets are a lighter shade. The only dashes of color are from the nick-knacks lined up on the dresser and the books lining the shelves. It's a contained portion. All of it pressed against one wall; the desk tucked between the shelves.
The bed has its own wall, coupled by a single, smaller dresser on its right. It's a nice room. If the situation were different, you'd go so far as to describe the room as comfortable. Cozy, even. They clearly keep it tidy and ready to receive guests, but you can't admire that right now. Your palms are sweating and your stomach is churning. There's a layer of sweat forming all over your body. You're trembling. You want to hurl. You might pass out, or you'll save yourself the embarrassment and skip to choking on your own tongue.
Everyone's leering at you, watching, observing you like some kind of fidgety animal or a shiny, new toy. It's so quiet, you can distinguish each one of their breaths.
It's like the world is at a stand-still. The ground is minutes from crumbling beneath your feet. The calm before the storm.
Hongjoong hands rest on your hips, and he draws himself closer until the two of you are slotted together. He purrs, low in your ear, "they're going to get you ready for me. Prep you, pamper you, all those courtesies."
You swallow. The nerves lodged in your throat make it hard to speak. Stress rendering your tongue incapable. Hongjoong doesn't seem to care, nor want a response. You let your eyes wander, aiming to ignore the others. Eight men. There's eight people in here, and you only know one of them.
It makes you nervy. You've never been in a room with so many men—you were never allowed to. Hongjoong claimed the title of the first man you were left alone with besides your father a few weeks ago. Now you're up to eight.
Yet, they all know you.
Hongjoong presses his cheek to yours. "Isn't she pretty?"
When no one answers, his hand grips your chin to force you to look at them. Your gaze locks with Seonghwa. The other person you know, barely, but you've heard of him. You know him mainly by name; Hongjoong speaks of him a lot, is near him a lot when you aren't around, so you've seen his face in passing. However, you haven't really gotten to know anyone but Hongjoong. Not through your own volition, but because it's a part of the rules. To bond you and Hongjoong closer.
It's important for you to form that trust with him, is what they told you. This is sacred.
You're getting special treatment from what you've heard. Not just anyone gets to experience this. Only the worthy. Only the chosen.
Your parents were jubilant. Their little girl favored by Hongjoong. Hand-picked to be by his side.
Nobody new has gotten this close to him. Nobody but you.
"Don't look away again," Hongjoong mutters. "I taught you how to listen, didn't I?"
"You did."
Hongjoong's hands trail up to your waist, dipping underneath your shirt. Warm hands kneading your stomach. "She's quite soft, I think you'll like her." His hands go further up, groping your tits, and yanking a yelp out of you. Hongjoong keeps you pushed against him. He noses at your temple as he says, "Especially here."
Your face burns, but you don't protest. You don't attempt to get away from him, you stand and take it. Nobody speaks, but it's not like they were intended to. No, they're taking to their role just as they're supposed to. Silently waiting. He peels himself away with a one last squeeze to your breasts, pulling your shirt back in its place.
"You're gonna be good for them, right?" He asks. "I don't want to hear any complaints about you later."
"Yeah," your voice is subdued, hushed. "I will."
"Good," he pushes you forward.
You flounder, and it takes everything to keep yourself from falling onto your knees.
"Be nice to her, 'kay?" He lilts, flippant.
Everyone takes it as the warning it's meant to be.
You hear the door open, then shut, solidifying the fact that you're alone with them. It's suffocating. You're so nervous, it's making you sick. You've never been anywhere without Hongjoong acting as your buffer.
You've been left in a lion's den.
They don't bother with any niceties. They move quickly, working as units. One person takes your back, pulling your shirt up and above your head. When you're able to see again, the prettiest man you've ever laid eyes on is standing in front of you, beginning to unbutton your pants. His hair is a vivid burgundy, and it matches the birthmark under his left eye.
Your mouth opens. He leaves before you can speak.
It's hard to catch up. When one leaves, another one takes their place. The man in front of you is tall. Tall enough that you have to lift your head a bit to look him in the eye. He's intimidating. His eyes are dark and intense. His plump bottom lip pulled between his teeth.
He gropes your chest through your bra and groans at the give. He steps closer. You attempt to step back, but the man at your back prevents that.
"Don't get too handsy, Mingi," he chides. Although, it's too light to be a true scolding.
The man—Mingi—chuckles, deep and syrupy, but his hands don't move. He doesn't show any remorse. He licks his lips, eyeing you down.
Your breath hitches. There's a pit in your stomach you can't shake. Apprehension riding your heels.
"Look at her. She's practically begging to be fucked." A finger traces up the length of your spine, stopping at the clasp of your bra. You whimper when your bra strap hits your back, jolting at the spritz of pain. He unfastens it. Mingi slides it off your shoulder, letting it fall onto the carpet.
A man with fox eyes and a lazy grin saunters up to you next. His hair is long enough to tickle his neck. His hands settle on your waist, thumbs pressing into your stomach. He squeezes.
"She is soft," he murmurs, pouting. "This is making me jealous. He's so lucky. I want-"
Seonghwa kisses his teeth. "That's too bad, Woo. Get on with it."
The man, who you now know as Woo, guides you to the bed. He keeps physical contact the entire time: a hand on the small of your back, on your arms to spin you around, and on your shoulders to push you down until you're lying on your back. He coaxes your thighs open, careful and slow, as if he's savoring the process.
You see him swallow, and his head falls back with a tiny groan. Then, he's back to it. His fingers latch onto the band of your underwear. He drags them down your legs treacherously slowly, and you don't see where they've been discarded when they're finally off, but you figure it's none of your concern. He inches closer, and you can feel the heat of his breath now. Fanning over you.
Seonghwa wrenches him up by the hair.
"Hwa, don't-" he whines. "Please I need—"
He gestures for someone, and two men wrangle Woo out the way, so that Seonghwa may take his place.
"Yun, hold her open," he murmurs.
Two large hands peel your thighs apart, keeping them there. Seonghwa brushes over your pubic hair. He pauses for a moment, then calls for someone. They bend down and he mutters something to them.
"I think he'd prefer her clean."
Seonghwa takes a moment to consider. Then, he turns back to you. The man stands to full height and backs away. The conversation, or lack thereof, makes you dizzy. His finger swipes through the lips of your cunt, and by the slide, you know it's damp. He hums, seemingly pleased.
You twitch, thighs flexing as they try to close.
It isn't until then that you realize you've been staring off into space, into the man above you. He's handsome. Soft features and coffee brown eyes. Dark blue hair shrouding his face. Your struggle draws his attention, and he clicks his tongue, scolding you without words. Your mouth opens, a question on the tip of it.
Yun grins, shaking his head.
You don't say anything. You almost forgot there's no need to. Best behavior. Don't talk. Don't fight.
You're doing so well. Hongjoong will be pleased. There will be no complaints if you can help it.
You jump when Seonghwa spreads you open. Slick folds completely on display now. He stops to look for a moment, inspecting you. No notes at the end, so you assume he doesn't find anything. You hope his silence is a good thing. He taps your clit, and your hips jolt. He doesn't say anything about that either. He runs a finger through the slick dribbling from your hole, and you whimper.
"Sensitive," he comments, sinking a finger in. The apology you had on the ready dies on your tongue. You gasp. You hear someone titter, a few whispers. It slides in easily. He curls his finger and your toes bend.
The pleasure is plucked away, fast as it was given.
"Everyone out. I'll do the rest myself," Seonghwa declares, rising from his knees.
There's a plethora of muttered curses as they go. A couple pleads to stay. Seonghwa staunchly ignores them, keeping his focus on you.
"Come," he orders.
You clamber off the bed and onto your feet, trailing after him like a lost puppy. He doesn't go far. He opens one of the two doors in the room.
It's a bathroom, so the other must be a closet.
It's beautiful. Spacious. Just a tad bit smaller than the actual room. The entire thing is marbled, and the tiled floor makes you shiver. It follows the coloring of the room, blueish-grey splattered with black. Black steel faucets and the wall art. The white clawfoot tub sits on its lonesome.
Seonghwa collects everything he needs and lines it up on the counter—body wash, lotion, oils, and shaving cream.
"Is this your room?"
He gives a noncommittal hum, ignoring you in favor of filling the tub with water. He pours in a pink liquid and some type of oil, swirling his hand around to help get it all foamy.
"Get in," he instructs.
You hesitate, waiting for Seonghwa to leave, or walk away. He doesn't.
"Are you going to watch me bathe..?"
"Of course not," Seonghwa says. "I'm going to bathe you."
When he puts it that way, it makes you sound stupid. You should've put that together. You should've known. He's already done so much, this was only natural.
You amble closer.
Gingerly, you dip your feet into the water. He must have been mindful of the temperature, because it's perfect. Neither too hot nor too cold. You sigh, leaning back, allowing yourself to relax. Your legs stretch as far as they can. Which is actually pretty far. This is quite a large tub.
"Comfortable?"
You can't tell if he's being condescending or not, but Hongjoong told you to be good, so you will.
"Yes, it is."
It's not like you're lying. It really is comfortable. The water is scented. It's warm. There's space for you to stretch out, and it's doing wonders for your nerves. All that apprehension pushed to the backdrop, so that you can focus on the now. Plus, you don't have a crowd of people leering at you anymore.
If you were Hongjoong, you'd go crazy. He's constantly being watched. Constantly being waited on.
Seonghwa doesn't reply, but he reaches over and tugs one of your legs out of the water. He washes you in sections— legs, neck, and arms. He has you stand up to reach your torso. It goes quickly with Seonghwa being surprisingly thorough. Goes over your entire body twice. He dries you off too.
"Sit here."
He pats the free space beside the sink. You listen, propping yourself up and powering through the chill of your bare ass on the counter. It's unsanitary and vaguely disgusting, but he hadn't handed you any clothing, so you deserve some grace.
Seonghwa lotions you from the soles of your feet to the skin of your neck, gently, nearly massage-like in nature.
"You're really good with your hands," you mumble. "Did you learn this for Joongie?"
That puts the smallest hint of a smile on Seonghwa's face. Despite his silence, you can tell he appreciates it. You're too busy admiring him to care about the lack of response. Up close, he's stunning with high cheekbones and honey-gold skin. A straight nose bridge and nice plump lips.
Seonghwa taps your thigh. "Wider."
So, you listen, spreading your legs. Seonghwa rubbing something on your cunt makes you jump. Oh. Right, there was a can of shaving cream. He's planning to shave you. That's why that guy said he'd prefer it bare—they were talking about your cunt. The realization makes you shiver. Enough to catch Seonghwa's attention.
"Be still."
"Sorry. I'm nervous. I've just-" you stammer. "I've never.."
Seonghwa stops you. "I know."
You mutter another apology. Shame boiling your blood. It's hard to stay put when he begins to slather you in it. The shaving cream is warmer than you expected. Maybe, Seonghwa warmed it up for you. It's still weird. You wish you could kill this restlessness. The difference of energy between the two of you is jarring. Seonghwa doesn't seem to hold any of your woes. He moves with precision; purpose. He lathers it everywhere he needs to. The creases of your thighs, the lower stomach, mound, and folds.
There's a gentle quality to it. Careful as to not hurt you, or he doesn't want to hear you complain. Daddy always told you to be wary of men. That they almost always have ill intent. He dips lower to get your taint and asshole too. Stops to wash his hand before he continues. Then, he's picking up the razor and sinking to his knees to get a better view.
You have to ask. "Have you done this before?"
Seonghwa pauses. His eyes flicking up to your face, and you see him deciding if he'll answer. "Something like that."
You figured. There's no reason to be this good if you've never done it before.
"Remember, it's very important you don't move. I trust you can do that."
He speaks to you like a kid, like you're stupid, drawing the words out. Honey cascading off a spool.
He waits for you to nod.
Indignation simmers in your gut. You're not stupid. You know the importance of it. It's common sense.
He starts from the top, below your belly button, beginning to work his way down. Uses his thumb to anchor the skin in place. He shaves you slowly, working down in the creases. Then moving back to the top to go down again. He goes with the grain, never against it. Seonghwa is methodical. He doesn't rush. He doesn't nick you. There's no wasted movements. He doesn't do anything he doesn't have to.
Occasionally, he halts to dunk the razor and wipe it off. It turns into a routine. A few swipes, dunk, wipe, and continue.
"Hold yourself open."
You do.
Like this, it's nearly impossible to stifle your tremors. There's an itch in your body. A tickle beneath the skin. Something that you continuously have to smother. You've never had anyone look at you so intently, or be this close to your privates at all. It must be the intimacy of it that's getting to you. The sheer amount of care that Seonghwa is putting in this. Slick is leaking out of you, pooling onto the counter and almost to the edge.
If it gets in the way, Seonghwa doesn't mention it. He doesn't even acknowledge it. He just readjusts his grip to get access to the bottom of your cunt and your crack.
When he's done, he wipes the rest off with a washcloth. Then, he's leaning closer to hike himself off the ground, and you flinch at his breath blowing over your clit.
Bewildered, you stare at him for a moment, waiting for him to say something, to berate you, or do anything at all.
He does none of those things. He just looks at you, cryptic in that way you've come to expect from him.
You relax, chalking it up to an accident.
Something akin to what could be a chuckle leaves him, but it also just sounds like a puff of air through his nose.
"Stay right there."
You lightly swing your legs as you wait for him, counting the streaks in the marble to quell your he comes back holding a translucent robe. You hop down to let him slip it on you.
He escorts you to Hongjoong like that. Barefoot and dazed. Hongjoong kisses you silly while you wait for them, asking questions about how it went and if they were nice to you. Trivial things to pass the time.
"Do you like them?"
You blink. A pause. You don't really like them. You don't know if you're allowed to not like them. Hongjoong wouldn't like it if you said that. Nobody likes when you have an opinion on anything.
Obedience is key. Compliance is indispensable.
"Yeah, I do."
Hongjoong smiles. "I'm sure they like you too."
You lean into him. "I hope so."
Anxiety doesn't catch up to you again until your lying on the stone with Hongjoong standing at the base of it, and all of his men standing a few feet away. They're all wearing the same thing—a black long sleeve, black leather pants with a matching mask, silver accessories—it's intimidating. The ambiance. The scrutiny of it.
It's odd to see all of them so quiet, stock-still, statuesque in their silence.
Your parents warned you about men, about their licentiousness, about what happens when girls like you stray. They told you that your husband is the only one who should see you like this. You wonder if they're aware that Hongjoong has turned you into a proper spectacle. If they'd still follow him despite.
You wonder if this is wrong.
You aren't quite sure anymore.
"Has anyone ever touched you before?"
Hongjoong murmurs, peering down at you. It's a question he's asked before. He knows what you'll say, but you must answer.
"No, I've never…" you whisper. "I've never been touched before."
"Have you ever wanted to know a man?"
"Only you," you confess.
Hongjoong grins, flashing white teeth.
"Then you shall."
Hongjoong's hands are hot when he touches your skin, settling on your ankles—warm like freshly spilled blood, staining your skin, permeating your body. You allow yourself to melt under his palms.
In the candlelight, he is nothing short of saintly. His hair is so close to white, it glows in the light. Forming a little halo around his head. His skin a beautiful shade of ochre. His eyes, in contrast, are black. Hunger dwells within them, hidden just below the surface. He crawls closer, and through the gap you could see the soft swells of his pectorals. His robe is the color of lapis, of clear skies. Though, it looks darker in dim lighting.
Hongjoong pushes your legs apart to slot himself between them. His hand trailing from your thigh to your hip, while the other hikes your leg up to bend your knee.
He leans down, pressing a kiss to your stomach. You squirm, eyelashes fluttering. He chuckles into you, planting another an inch higher. Then an open-mouthed kiss to your sternum. Another in between your clavicles. He doesn't worry about removing your robe, doesn't even try. He doesn't have to.
It's thin enough you can feel through it. You can feel everything. The heat of his breath, his plush lips, and his heavy hands on your hips.
Sporadically, he rakes his blunt nails up and down your sides to tempt more reactions out of you.
"D'ya like it?" He breathes, tongue laving over your ear. "Does it feel good to be under me?"
You shudder, hiccuping. It feels weird. Wet and warm. Ticklish. "I dunno. It feels… odd."
"You'll like it," he promises. Kisses the spot below your ear. "I'll make you like it."
Hongjoong swoops down, attaching his mouth to your tit. His tongue swipes over your nipple and your body trembles. Your thighs rub together, and you can feel the wetness collecting between them. It embarrasses you. The crest of arousal, wetness blooming between your legs. His free hand provides your neglected nipple with attention. He cups your breast in his hand, squeezing. Absently rubbing your nipple, tugging on it. It sends tingles of pleasure through you.
Your head lifts. You have to blink away the film to see. Hongjoong's rosy mouth latched onto your breast. His eyes half-mast and murky.
It's not long until he switches to the other side. His hand pinches your spit-soaked nipple. He sucks hard and you gasp, chest stuttering. Your hips buck. One of your hands buries itself in his hair, wedging yourself against him. Hongjoong laughs into you, and it ripples through you. Traveling all the way to your cunt. Your other hand rests on his shoulder, and you have to stop yourself from digging your nails in.
"Want more," you huff, petulant.
The sounds coming out of you are obscene. Things you couldn't have imagined. You didn't know your vocal cords could produce these noises. You hadn't realized you were capable.
Hongjoong pulls of a with a pop, panting. His lips swollen and bruised. His lips pucker, and the gush of air that follows is enough to tug a whine from you. He ducks down to bite at your rib. You whimper.
"See how needy you are from me playing with your cute tits," he titters, lapping at the teeth marks left behind. "I can already imagine how good my tongue could make you feel on that pretty cunt of yours, doesn't that sound nice? I could make you feel so good. You'd love it. I think they'd love to watch me eat you, too."
The reminder of the audience is sobering. White-hot humiliation floods your veins, inundating your brain. They've all lost that larkish edge, giving way for something far more decadent; they look like they're starving. A newfound tension riddling them. Your mouth clamps shut, stifling your moans.
If Hongjoong weren't in the way, you'd cover yourself.
He sinks his teeth into the fat of your breast. Lightly at first, slowly increasing the pressure until you cannot muffle your cry. You yank at his hair, attempting to dislodge him, and he groans.
A string of spit connects him to your nipple when he separates from you.
"Don't get shy on me now." His tongue lolls out to circle your nipple as he looks up at you. A feral glint in his eyes.
"I'm not," you mumble.
Hongjoong rises, running a finger down your middle. He pushes your robe off to drape over the slab beneath you. "If you say so."
His thumb peels your pussy open. Watches it contract, pulsing. He murmurs, "there you go. All pretty and puffed up down here."
His middle finger teases your slit, watching it quiver around nothing. Your hips chase after it, trying to press yourself into him to push his finger in.
Hongjoong tuts, "you're so desperate to be filled. Have patience."
"I do," you huff. "I just-"
Hongjoong smacks your thigh, hissing. "Quiet."
You shut your mouth.
"Keep up the attitude, and I must just stuff this little hole full with no prep," he grumbles. "Rip your virgin cunt in half. Fuckin' ruin it." His hand encases your pussy, three fingers pressed to your slit, threatening. "Is that what you want? Want me to break you so early on?"
You panic, thrashing. "No, no, no. I'll be good. I'll be perfect—don't do it. Don't. Can't take it."
Hongjoong's head tilts. "Does what you want matter?"
Fear chokes you. It hunkers down inside your chest and makes it hard to breathe. Your heart rate is picking up. A sheen of tears coating your eyes. You shake your head.
"So you're not stupid," he comments. "Do you think I should be nice to you when you're being so rude to me in front of my men?"
You're scared. You want to flee, to run. It's not like you're tied up. There's nothing holding you here. Yet, you don't move. You lie there, trapped, staring into the dark oblivion of Hongjoong's eyes.
There's nowhere to go. Nowhere you'd rather be.
At this moment, you realize that this is the closest Hongjoong has ever gotten to God. He looks like Him. With his violence and obstinacy—his overwhelming nature. Him in the flesh. You can feel it. That dreadful awe. Righteous terror. You, the sacrifice. The sinner and the feast. Him, the blade. The hand of judgment.
A tear slips down your temple. "No, I don't. I don't know anything. I'm sorry. Sorry for thinking."
Hongjoong coos, seemingly placated. "That's okay. You know better now. Girls don't think. That's not what you're made for."
He slides his index in.
"You're meant to appreciate, to take what I give you." He intones. "You're made for me, so I'll decide what you get and what you'll give. I own you. Every single inch. From that silly brain to the tips of your toes. Do you understand?"
You nod emphatically.
Hongjoong's fingers aren't long, not like Seonghwa's had been—they're shorter, just a tad longer than your own, but they're thicker. One is hardly anything but it's still noticeable. His finger flexes, bending, grazing something inside of you. Your hand scrambles for something to hold onto, scratching uselessly at the slate.
Hongjoong laughs.
A playful, lilting thing. Any signs of anger disintegrated. It's so dissimilar, so antithetical to what you've witnessed, it frightens you.
It chills you to your core. You've never understood the meaning of God-fearing, not in the way everyone else did, but you do now. It's impossible not to looking at Him, at Hongjoong. Divinity oozes off him. You clench around his finger, unthinkingly. He shoves another finger in. There's a faint stretch.
Hongjoong's pace is languid. Shallow thrusts that are angled to constantly bump that sensitive spot inside you. Your head is spinning, dizzy. Your hips are undulating to seek more pleasure, to press yourself against him. It is humiliating. The utter amount of need that pours out of you, leaking out your cunt and your eyes and your open mouth. You hadn't realized anything could whittle you down to this.
It's undeniably pleasant. Far better than what your parents taught you. Procreation was always described as perfunctory. For utilitarian purposes only. Strictly for the bedroom and no prying eyes.
His thumb brushes over something and you seize.
"What was-" you gasp, strained. "That felt-"
"Amazing, I know," Hongjoong fills in for you, does it again to hear you mewl. "I knew you'd love it. Never doubt me again. You don't know what's good for you. You don't know anything, but since you want to know I can tell you. That was your clit, baby."
Flattening his thumb against it, he strokes it absentmindedly. Rubbing up and down. Down and up. He's stopped thrusting, focusing his attention on your clit. Pressure builds in your tummy. A distinct tightness in your lower abdomen. Forthcoming. It's approaching faster than you can think. Your moaning, writhing. Hongjoong uses a hand to capture your hip, curbing your movements.
"Beg me." Hongjoong says.
You reach out for him, but he slaps your hands away. Tears blur your vision. Your chest is heaving. Your heart a hammer in your ribcage.
"Please, Joongie. Please," you babble. "I need it. Need you. I can't do it without you."
Hongjoong giggles. A boyish, fleeting sound. "Please what? You don't even know what you're asking for."
He's right. You don't know what you're asking for, but you know that you want it. You want it so badly. You want so much it hurts. An ache only he can fix. You know that it's coming, and Hongjoong's not stopping. He's still rubbing sticky circles into your clit. His fingers jammed inside you.
You know that you don't want him to stop.
"I'm gonna- I'm gonnna- I don't know."
He stops.
The comedown is harrowing. It leaves you empty. Gutted and barren. Sanity spilling out of you. Coherence is hard to come by. Pushing out and taking in puffs of air feel Olympian. As if your chest with collapse in on itself. Tears glide down your temples.
"Hongjoong," you mumble, imploring, watery and low.
"Poor thing," he croons. "You don't know what to do with yourself, do you? You don't even know to ask for something. What you want is to cum, baby." His hips roll into you, and you can feel the imprint of him. Blaring and incessant. "Do you know what this is?"
You gulp, fluster. "Your penis."
"No, dummy," he chides. "There's other words."
Your eyebrows pinch together. You weren't taught anything else.
"I don't know."
"There's two different words," he murmurs. "You can either call it a cock or a dick. That's what big girls call it. That's what you'll call it."
"That's so… vulgar."
"Say it."
"Say what?"
"Ask for my cock," he clarifies. "Ask me to fuck you and make you cum on my fingers."
Your mouth shuts, opens. Shuts again. Then opens once more. The words gumming up in your throat, sticking to your stomach lining. You parents were strict about the words you used. You weren't allowed to be crass. You weren't allowed to be dirty. They made sure you always acted like a lady. You weren't even supposed to know cunt or pussy. You found out when something explicit came on TV.
"Please f-"
"I want you to look at them while you do it." Two fingers tapping your cheek. "Show them how pretty you are when you use your manners."
You have to steel yourself.
Gradually, you turn your head, shuddering when you meet their eyes. It's hard to pick one to look at. They all blend together. A black smear in your vision. Sliver glinting like stars. They look ravenous. Their fists balled. Their breathing is deep and intentional. You're debauched, shameful and lewd. Your mouth moves anyway, "please f… fuck me. Please make me cum on your fingers.
"Only my fingers?" he sighs, sulking, plunging three fingers inside you. You jerk at the stretch. More than what you're used to. Is he mad at you again? Is he teasing you?
You can't tell.
"No, no, I want your cock," you amend. "I want all of you. I want everything."
Hongjoong motions for something. Someone places a cup of red wine in his hand. It sploshes around, nearly spilling. He throws his head back and half of it is gone. He bends forward, pursing his lips. He sets the glass down to tap your cheek. Your mouth opens. He spits it into your mouth, and it comes down like a waterfall. It's tart. Gross. You don't like it.
You swallow what you can, but it dribbles down your cheeks. Hongjoong happily laps up the excess. Ending it with a messy kiss, slurping what he can out of your mouth and stealing your breath.
He leans back to pour the rest from the glass, taking advantage of the leverage to quicken his thrusts. He's snapping his wrist now. Lugging you to the edge. You try to lurch forward, but Hongjoong puts a hand to your chest. He sets the cup back down when you're done.
Sputtering, your cheek bulging around your mouthful. It's so gross. It's absolutely disgusting, but you have to do it. Hongjoong told you to, so you must. He pinches your clit between thumb and pointer, and you gurgle pathetically. Desperately trying not to choke. You're dangling off the edge, and you blubber out a plea, but it comes out wrong. Unintelligible.
"Such a sloppy girl," he tuts, pulling his fingers out of you and breezing past your pleas for more. He grabs your face, smearing slick on your skin. He shakes your head from side to side. "Getting me all dirty."
"Sorry."
“You'll clean it up, won't you?” he coos, sugar-sweet; light as créme.
"Yeah."
His skin tastes like you. Tangy and evidently human. It's not that bad. It's certainly not something you'd do on your own, but you don't hate it. Hongjoong latches his finger onto your tongue, pressing on it. You suckle at them. He thrusts them in. Once, twice. Just to make you gag. He yanks them out, and you smack your lips. The taste lingers.
"What does it taste like?"
Unsure, you answer. "It tastes like me."
"Let me see."
For some reason, your vision is fuzzy, and it softens Hongjoong. It makes him look cherubic, light limning his body and radiating off of him.
Hongjoong's mouth is wine-warmed and bitter. His lips are velvety and nice. It's a sweet kiss. It's more tender than what you'd expect from him. His mouth tastes like salvation; deliverance. Like love, Like being lured to the light at the end of all roads. It's a comforting thing. As if you're being bled so gently, you don't realize you're dying. It is dreamy, untouched by reality. Hongjoong draws back. His cheeks are flushed pink and his lips are ruby red.
Deliberately, Hongjoong unties his robes, and it rolls off his shoulders. Showcasing his pectorals and the divots of his collarbones. He opens it up to reveal his cock. It's not long, but it's thick. Wide. His tip is ruddy and glistening.
He taps his cock against your clit. You twitch, hole clenching around nothing. He spreads you open, presses the head of his cock against your pussy, thrusts to coat the underside of his cock in your slick. The tip bumping your clit at every pass. He's taunting you, keeping you on the brink but never giving you enough.
"Joongie," you hiccup. "Don't do that."
“Don't do what, baby?” he says, jutting his lip out in a faux pout. Another thrust. “tell me what you want. Tell me and I'll think about giving it to you, how about that?"
"Want you to fuck me," you snivel.
Hongjoong lays a kiss on your open mouth.
“One more time,” he breathes, nearly reverent, a touch whiny.
“Fuck me, please,” you wail, sniffling.
With a startling amount of strength, Hongjoong flips you onto both knees. There's dull pain in your knees, but it gets eclipsed by the sudden fullness. He rams his cock in with one stroke. It aches. It hurts. He's so thick. He's tearing you open, splitting you apart.
He doesn't let up, doesn't grace you with any reprieve. He moves immediately. Drilling a hole only he can fill, branding you. He's trying to gut you, to make you into a proper sacrifice, you think. That must be it. That must be why. You're ripping. Your hole is so full, too full. Stretched to its limits.
You scramble, blubbering. "Hurts. It hurts. S'too much. Can't take it."
Your slobbering, drool trickles out your parted mouth, pooling on the stone beneath you. It mixes with the tears running down your face. Your eyes snap shut.
Hongjoong grunts, "open your eyes."
Your eyes peel open, and you blink away the tears obscuring your vision. It doesn't work. The force of his thrusts jerk you forward, scraping your knees. You can do nothing but sniffle, whimpering. He pulls your head to the side, gritting out, "look at them while I fuck you."
They're nothing more than a bunch of splotches. Hardly resembling a human anymore. It doesn't hurt anymore. It's starting to feel good. The drag of him against your wall. The sting of his skin hitting your skin. His balls smacking against your clit. Your cries have shifted into moans.
"Look at them." He grips your hair. "Fucking look at them. Don't look away. Don't close your eyes."
You hadn't realized your eyes were closed. Keeping them open is harder than you thought, but fear is a great motivator. You're not looking at them—not really. It's unseeing, practically looking through them.
“Come closer.” he orders.
It takes you a second to realize he's not talking to you. The sound of their boots hitting the floor is deafening, bouncing off the walls. Echoing. Although, it gets muffled by the squelching of your pussy, the echo of your desperate moaning, his deranged rambling.
“Isn't she the perfect whore?” he asks, voice thick. “Her virgin cunt takes my cock so well. She was born for this. Made for me.”
Your cunt quivers around him, at how crude he is, at how he talks about you. The praise sears through you, caramelizing your blood. Melting in your mouth like chocolate.
"You're so tight," he groans. "Tell me you're mine. Tell me how much you love it."
"Love you, love your cock," you squeal. "I'm yours. Jus' yours. Forever."
Hongjoong's pace increases inexplicably. Without rhyme or reason, he fucks into like he's gone feral, like he's trying to dig into you. His hand splays out over your back, pushing your chest down. Your back cracks. Your lungs ache from the strain. It's hard to breathe like this. Worsened by the fact that like this, he's going impossibly deep that it knocks the air out of your lungs.
“You're mine. All mine.” he chants, slowing down. "Fuck, m'close. Gonna cum inside you. Gonna make you mine in every possible way. Breed you full."
He curls over you, wrapping his arm around you to hold you to his chest. He's scorching to the touch. Molten-gold. Bleeding-sun. He can't truly thrust anymore. There's not enough room. He can't pull himself away to fuck you anymore. Instead, he grinds into you. Quick, shallow bunny humps. He brings to fingers to clumsily rub your clit.
"You come after me," he breathes. "Not a second before."
The pleasure grows needling. You convulse. Your toes curl and pop. Your eyes roll up into your skull. You howl like a wounded animal, trying to run from the pleasure, from the intensity of it all. You want to get away. You want to be obedient, but it's difficult.
Hongjoong's hand leaves you and comes down with a wet smack. You yelp. Your entire body is taut from the strain of holding it in. The pleasure takes you hostage. It keeps you suspended. Your cunt clamps down on him like a vice, slick trailing down your thighs.
He cums from that, bores his teeth into your shoulder. He lets out tiny huffs through his nose. Slaps your cunt again, angling it flat over your clit. Your orgasm spears you, cleaving you in half, cracking through your bones like a spatch-cocked chicken. Euphoria. Pure ecstasy. That's what this is. It feels like warmth, like love. Like everything you've ever wanted.
Hongjoong doesn't stop until you've gone limp. Dried out and boneless. Little, gaspy moans escaping you. Too tired to attempt to squirm away from him or knock his hand off your tender clit.
Steadily, his breath evens out, and allows your body to drift away from his own. You slump, sagging onto your stomach. Peering between your legs, he grins. "Make sure all of it stays inside of her. I don't want a drop wasted"
He doesn't have to look at them for them to know who he's talking to. After all, they're the ones in charge of your aftercare.
Petting your head, Hongjoong says, “don't worry, they're going to clean you up. I take care of what’s mine after all.”
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