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The Price of Art itzy yuna

paid public comission thanks <3

The balance on her banking app was a joke: 12.40 won. Basically nothing.

“Dammit… this can’t be happening,” she whispered. Her voice sounded broken, small, lost in the dead silence of her room.

She felt a sudden pit in her stomach—a mix of actual hunger and a cold wave of nausea rising in her throat. She slumped into her old chair, feeling the wood creak under her weight, and leaned her elbows on the table covered in half-finished sketches. Her breasts, squeezed by a white t-shirt that was way too small and clinging to her skin from nervous sweat, heaved up and down.

The air in the tiny apartment was freezing; the heat had died days ago and she didn't have the money to call a technician. She hugged herself, rubbing her goosebumped arms as the cold seeped into her bones.

“What am I going to do? Where the fuck am I supposed to go if I get kicked out?” she asked herself, squeezing her eyes shut.

She could feel her heart hammering against her ribs, an erratic rhythm pounding in her temples. The panic didn't hit her like a wave; it was more like a slow, suffocating pressure. She remembered Mr. Han’s last warning: the rent was three months overdue. It wasn't just a small debt; it was a hole she was sinking into while she desperately tried to finish her canvases for her final project.

She stood up abruptly, the chair sliding back with a loud screech. She walked to the bathroom mirror and looked at herself. Yuna had always known she was beautiful; she knew she had porcelain skin, full lips, and curves that, while youthful, already drew every eye at the university. But right now, looking like that was useless.

She touched her stomach, feeling her muscles tense from anxiety. She was thin, almost fragile, but her hips were wide and her round ass filled out her tight jeans perfectly. She looked at her breasts in the mirror, seeing her nipples poking through the thin fabric of the shirt because of the cold in the bathroom.

“I’m fucked,” she murmured, as a drop of cold sweat slid down the back of her neck. “I am completely fucked.”

Hunger started biting at her stomach harder. She hadn't eaten anything solid in almost twenty hours—just some watered-down coffee and a piece of hard bread. Her hands started shaking again. The fear of eviction was real; she had no family to bail her out, and her savings had vanished into expensive materials, professional brushes, and large canvases that now looked like useless scraps of fabric.

She slid down the bathroom wall until she was sitting on the cold floor, knees pulled up to her chest. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them, she saw a message from Mr. Han, her landlord. The man was a living nightmare: obese, with heavy breath that smelled like stale tobacco, and a look that always seemed to strip her naked, traveling from her eyes down to the curve of her pelvis.

The message simply said: "Princess, I'm coming to the apartment tomorrow to collect the rent in person."

“No… not now…” she thought, a shiver running down her spine.

But she knew it was inevitable. The deadline had passed yesterday. Every minute that went by brought her closer to being on the street with all her belongings in plastic bags. Desperation started clouding her judgment, turning fear into a kind of silent submission. She felt small, vulnerable, and terrifyingly aware that she had no way to fight someone who owned the roof over her head.

She sat there in silence, listening to the distant sound of city traffic, her breathing becoming heavy and short… hoping fate would show some mercy, even though she knew that in this world, mercy didn't pay the bills.

Three loud, sharp knocks shook the door.

“I know you’re in there, Yuna!” Mr. Han’s voice was a hoarse growl, loaded with a greasy kind of authority. “Open the damn door right now!”

Yuna swallowed hard. Her legs felt like jelly and cold sweat beaded on her forehead. She walked toward the entrance with shaky steps, feeling every inch bring her closer to a cliff. When she turned the knob and opened the door, the air in the hallway was displaced by the man's massive presence.

Mr. Han didn’t just enter; he invaded. He was obese, with a belly that strained the buttons of his yellowish-white shirt, revealing patches of damp body hair and red skin. His smell came before him: a suffocating mix of cheap tobacco, stale sweat, and some kind of budget cologne that only served to highlight the scent of old meat.

“You’re late on your payments, princess,” he said, slamming the door shut behind him with a thud that made the windows vibrate.

Yuna instinctively backed away, bumping into the small entry table. Her pupils dilated and she felt a chill run down her neck.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry, Mr. Han,” she stammered, looking down. “I had some problems with my college materials and… I… I swear I’ll catch up soon. I just need a few more weeks.”

The man didn't answer right away. Instead, he just stood there, breathing heavily. The sound of his lungs fighting for oxygen filled the silence of the apartment. Yuna could feel the landlord's gaze scanning her, but it wasn't a casual look. It was a slow, visceral, obscene scan.

Mr. Han’s small, glinting eyes traveled from her face down to her breasts, which were heaving from nervousness. They stayed there for a few seconds, as if he were measuring the firmness of her tits under the white fabric, before dropping to her hips and stopping at the curve of her ass.

“Weeks?” he let out a nasal chuckle that sounded like phlegm. “I’ve been patient with you for three months, Yuna. Patience has a limit… and so does my pocket.”

Yuna felt her stomach knot up. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, and she began to tremble slightly. The man took a step forward, forcing her to back away further. His physical mass was overwhelming; Yuna felt like a porcelain doll facing a hungry animal.

“Please… don't kick me out,” she pleaded, her voice breaking, almost a whisper. “I have nowhere else to go. I’ll do anything, I swear. I’ll work double, I’ll get the money…”

Mr. Han stopped just inches from her. Yuna could feel the heat radiating from his obese body and the smell of tobacco that seemed to soak into the very air she breathed. He tilted his head, looking at her with a crooked smile that revealed yellowish teeth.

“Anything, huh?” he repeated, lowering his voice to a predatory purr. “That’s a very dangerous word, princess. A very… tempting word.”

Yuna felt the hair on her arms stand up. The man's tone had changed; it wasn't just the anger of a debt collector anymore, but something much darker and more lustful. Her nipples hardened against her shirt—not from the cold, but as an instinctive reaction of fear and vulnerability that made her feel naked under those eyes.

“What do you mean?” she asked, though deep down she already knew the answer. Her pulse quickened, hammering in her ears.

Mr. Han let out a short, dry laugh while extending a fat, sweaty hand to lightly touch Yuna's shoulder. The contact was brief, but her skin reacted as if it had been burned; an electric shiver ran down her entire spine.

“Oh, don't get so defensive, beautiful,” he said, never stopping that suffocating intensity in his gaze. “It’s just that I’m starting to sell clothes and I need a model… with your body and pretty face, I think you’d be perfect. Of course, I’d pay you enough to cover the rent and then some.”

For a moment, Yuna felt a spark of excitement. After everything, she was seeing a light… a ray of hope to escape her debt and her hunger.

Yuna felt air returning to her lungs for the first time in hours. The panic that had paralyzed her began to fade, replaced by a spark of hope so intense it almost blinded her. A model? It sounded absurd; she had no experience. But she looked at her own body and then at the man's gaze; she knew she was pretty, she knew she turned heads. If he was willing to pay her just to pose, it was the biggest miracle of her life.

“Seriously?” Yuna asked, her voice still trembling but now filled with naive hope. “You’d really pay my rent and give me extra for that?”

Mr. Han let out a snort that made his double chin vibrate. He stepped back to give her space, but his eyes remained locked on her, tracing the line of her neck down to the valley between her breasts. Yuna didn't realize that this "hope" was the perfect bait; she was so desperate she couldn't see the strings he was starting to pull.

“That’s right, princess,” he answered, his voice now softer, almost paternal, though it kept that greasy tone. “It’s a personal project. I want to capture the essence of youth, purity… form. You study Fine Arts, right? You know the human body is the ultimate masterpiece. I just need a few photos, nothing complicated.”

Yuna nodded quickly, almost enthusiastically. Her hands stopped shaking and started playing with the edge of her shirt.

“Yes, I know… anatomy is fundamental,” she stammered, feeling validated in her field of study. “I could do it. I don't care about the schedule; I can go whenever you want.”

Mr. Han let out a hoarse chuckle and put his hand to his chin, pretending to reflect while his eyes stayed glued to Yuna's hips, imagining them wrapped in lycra.

“There’s one detail,” he said, lowering his tone. “It’s not just any clothes. I have a specific outfit I want to test. It’s a blue swimsuit, full body, very tight. Like a sports or professional swimming uniform. I want to see how it fits a figure like yours.”

Yuna frowned slightly, but it wasn't rejection—it was technical curiosity. A blue swimsuit… didn't seem out of place for a photo session about the "human form." In her mind, she imagined an artistic session with soft lights and neutral backgrounds, something that could even serve as part of her portfolio.

“A swimsuit…” she repeated softly. She felt a slight heat rise in her cheeks. “That’s fine. If it’s for photos, I don't have a problem.”

“Exactly. Nothing vulgar, just art,” he lied, and the lie came out so smoothly that Yuna didn't even suspect him. “But I want it to be at my place. I have the lighting equipment there, an improvised studio where no one will bother us. One night, a few poses, and tomorrow I’ll wipe your debt clean and give you a cash bonus for your materials.”

Yuna's heart leaped. The "cash bonus" was the final blow. She stopped thinking about the man's smell or the way he looked at her; she only thought about new brushes, the large canvas she had been craving, and the feeling of no longer having an empty stomach.

“I accept,” Yuna said firmly, though her voice sounded small. “I accept the deal, Mr. Han.”

The man flashed a triumphant smile—a predatory expression that Yuna interpreted as kindness. He extended his fat, damp hand once more, and this time Yuna didn't pull away. She shook the landlord's hand, feeling the sticky, warm skin against hers, a contact that caused an involuntary shiver to run down her spine.

“Perfect, princess. Tomorrow at seven in the evening. Don't be late,” he said, letting go of her slowly. “And remember: wear something light underneath so the swimsuit slides on easily. I want every curve to show; no wrinkles in the fabric. Art requires precision, right?”

Yuna nodded, feeling a strange mix of nerves and relief.

“Yes… precision. I’ll be there.”

Mr. Han turned to leave the apartment, but before closing the door, he cast one last glance over his shoulder. He stared at Yuna's ass as she turned back to her table, a lustful glint lighting up his small eyes.

“Tomorrow you’re going to be my masterpiece, Yuna,” he murmured to himself, slamming the door shut with a thud that echoed through the hallway.

Yuna was left alone in the silence of her room. She sank into her chair and let out a long sigh, feeling the weight of the world lift off her shoulders. She didn't know she had just signed a contract where the currency wasn't time or work, but her own skin. She looked at her hands, still stained with paint, and smiled slightly, unaware that tomorrow those same hands would be trying to cover herself while Mr. Han did exactly the opposite.

Slowly, she lowered her arm and exhaled deeply, feeling the tension that had kept her shoulders rigid for weeks finally crumble. Her legs, which had been shaking violently minutes ago, now felt solid. The void in her stomach no longer felt like an open wound, but a tolerable wait.

“I can't believe it… he actually helped me,” she whispered to herself, and a small, almost unconscious smile appeared on her full lips.

She walked to the window and looked at the city's gray sky. She felt strangely ashamed. For months, she had seen Mr. Han as a monster, a rude and unpleasant man who only knew how to grunt and demand money. She had judged his obesity and smell as signs of a repulsive personality, but now, in the light of this opportunity, she started to reinterpret everything.

Maybe he's just a lonely man, she thought, hugging herself. Maybe that rudeness is just a mask because he doesn't know how to approach people. And that he offered me this… means he trusts me, that he sees something in me others don't.

She felt flattered. The idea that someone, even a grumpy landlord, saw her body as a "masterpiece" or a subject worthy of artistic study touched a chord of pride in her. As a Fine Arts student, Yuna was obsessed with aesthetics and form; the fact that Mr. Han talked about “capturing the essence of youth” made her feel like he shared her passion—that there was a hidden intellectual connection behind his sloppy appearance.

“I’ve been too hard on him,” she murmured, feeling a comforting warmth in her chest. “Poor man, probably nobody understands him.”

She moved through the room with renewed energy. She no longer saw the half-finished canvases as reminders of financial failure, but as preludes to what would come after the cash bonus. She imagined buying those premium sable brushes she had seen in the specialty store, feeling the fine bristles on the canvas. She imagined the hunger disappearing, replaced by real dinners and nights of sleep without the nightmare of eviction stalking her.

She approached the bathroom mirror once more. This time, she didn't look at herself with the anguish of someone who is a vulnerable piece of meat, but with the curiosity of an artist analyzing their own model. She observed the curve of her neck, the volume of her breasts pushing against the shirt, and the smooth line of her waist.

“If it’s just for artistic photos, there's no reason to be afraid,” she told herself, running her fingers over her cheeks. “It’s professional. He said it himself. ‘Nothing vulgar.’”

The fact that he had asked her to come to his house to use the "lighting equipment" seemed like a logical technical detail. After all, light is everything in photography. Yuna felt silly for having been afraid just half an hour ago; she laughed softly at her own naivety, not realizing that this very naivety was the paved road toward her own downfall.

She spent the rest of the afternoon in a state of contained euphoria. She tidied up her room, organized her brushes and, for the first time in a long while, took a long, hot shower. While the water slid over her curves, Yuna closed her eyes and imagined the photo session as something elegant, almost ethereal. She couldn't wait to see the results; she felt this would be a turning point in her life, not just financially, but personally.

When night fell, she lay in her cold bed, but this time the cold didn't bother her. She was too busy planning how she would thank Mr. Han for his generosity. She fell asleep with a sense of absolute peace, convinced that she had found an unexpected ally in the most improbable man in the world.

Meanwhile, a few blocks away, in the dim light of his own house, Mr. Han checked his camera and prepared the clothes he would give Yuna. A slimy smile spread across his face as he imagined the look of surprise on the girl's face when she discovered that the "art" he was looking for had nothing to do with museums, but everything to do with what she believed she was protecting under her clothes.

Yuna slept deeply, dreaming of canvases and brushes, unaware that tomorrow she would stop being the artist and become the canvas where Mr. Han would write his filthiest desires.

The clock struck seven exactly when Yuna arrived in front of Mr. Han's door. She stopped for a second to take a deep breath, feeling the fresh night air cool her lungs. She was wearing a simple dress and comfortable shoes, but her heart beat with unusual force, hammering against her ribs like a caged animal.

“You can do this, Yuna. It’s just art,” she whispered to herself, trying to calm the shaking of her hands.

When she knocked, the door opened almost instantly, as if he had been leaning against the frame waiting for her arrival. Mr. Han appeared, filling the space with his massive volume. He was wearing a gray t-shirt that clung to his sweaty belly and loose pants.

“You’re on time, princess,” he grunted, and although his voice was hoarse, Yuna interpreted it as a sign of respect for her punctuality. “Come in, come in. Don't just stand out there freezing.”

Yuna entered the house and was immediately hit by the atmosphere. The smell of stale tobacco was much stronger than in the apartment, mixing with a scent of confinement and dampness that made her wrinkle her nose slightly. The lighting was dim; only a few yellowish lamps lit the hallways, creating long, heavy shadows that seemed to move around her.

“It’s… very quiet here,” Yuna commented, looking around with curiosity.

“It’s a private studio,” Han replied, closing the door behind her with a metallic and final sound. “No one will interrupt us here. Concentration is key to capturing the model's essence.”

Yuna nodded, feeling small under the low ceiling of the house. As they walked toward what he called the "studio," she could feel that the man's eyes never left her. It wasn't a technical look; it was a voracious observation scanning the curve of her back and the movement of her hips as she walked. Yuna felt a slight shiver, but she quickly dismissed it, convincing herself it was just the nervousness of the moment.

“Here you go,” he said, opening the door to a wide room containing a white background, professional spotlights, and a giant mirror. “The set is ready.”

Yuna looked at the lights with admiration. It really did look professional. However, on a small table next to the mirror, there was a pile of folded clothes. It wasn't the clothing she expected; there were no white robes or ethereal gowns.

“Before we start with the main photos, I want to do some light and composition tests,” Han explained, stepping closer to her. The man breathed heavily, and Yuna noticed that the scent of tobacco emanated directly from his pores. “I’ve prepared a few outfits. I want you to try them on one by one to see which one best highlights your… bone structure.”

Yuna approached the table and picked up the first garment. It was a set of sports lingerie, but much tighter and more revealing than what she considered "sporty." The fabric was thin, almost transparent in some areas, and the design left a lot of skin exposed.

“This?” Yuna asked, feeling her cheeks heat up. “It seems a bit… tight for test clothing, don't you think?”

Mr. Han let out a nasal chuckle, moving toward her until he was very close. Yuna could feel the heat radiating from his obese body and the smell of sweat that was starting to become suffocating.

“It’s technical gear, princess,” he lied in a sugary voice. “I need to see how the light behaves on the muscles and skin. There’s nothing to be ashamed of; remember you’re an artistic model. Or are you afraid to show your beauty?”

Yuna felt a prick to her pride. The challenge, though subtle, worked perfectly. She wanted to prove she was a professional, that she could handle the concept of the human body without taboos.

“I’m not afraid,” she replied with her chin up, although her hands were gripping the thin fabric tightly.

“I like that attitude,” he said, and Yuna could have sworn she saw a predatory glint in his eyes. “Go to the changing room. Put on the first outfit. Don't take long; the light is perfect right now.”

Yuna headed to the small cubicle behind the curtain, feeling her heart race. As she took off her dress and felt the cold air of the studio hit her bare skin, her nipples hardened instantly. Sliding into the first garment, she felt how the fabric squeezed her breasts, lifting them and marking them with almost obscene clarity. The set left much of her thighs exposed, and the curve of her ass was dangerously revealed.

She looked at herself in the changing room mirror and let out a small gasp. She looked incredibly sexy, but it was a sensuality she didn't recognize in herself.

“Yuna! Are you ready?” Han shouted from outside. His voice sounded impatient, almost hungry.

“Y-yes… I’m coming,” she stammered, adjusting the garment with trembling hands.

When Yuna stepped out of the changing room, the silence became absolute. Mr. Han didn't say anything for several seconds; he just stood there, mouth slightly open, scanning every inch of her exposed body. The man's gaze dropped from her lips down to the valley between her breasts, where the fabric seemed on the verge of giving way under the volume of her tits.

Yuna felt her skin prickle under that look. It wasn't an artist's gaze; it was the look of someone imagining exactly how it would feel to touch that skin. But in her naivety, Yuna interpreted this silence as professional admiration.

“What do you think?” she asked in a thin voice.

“Perfect… absolutely perfect,” Han whispered, his hand unconsciously dropping toward his own waist. “But this is just the beginning. We have much more to try.”

Mr. Han didn't stop looking at her for a single second. The silence in the room was so thick that Yuna could hear the rhythmic, heavy sound of the man's breathing—a dull panting that seemed to fill the whole space. She felt small, exposed, as if the air itself were caressing the areas of her skin left bare by the first outfit.

“The light… the light falls perfectly on your shoulders,” he finally said, although his eyes weren't on her shoulders; they were glued to the way her nipples poked through the thin fabric of the sports set, erect from the cold and tension. “But I think we need something with a stronger contrast. Something that better defines the lines of your waist and the curve of your thighs.”

Yuna crossed her arms instinctively, trying to cover herself a bit. The synthetic fabric of the set was so tight she felt it squeezing her thighs and the base of her hips, marking the crevice of her ass with surgical precision.

“Is there something else?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

Mr. Han let out a hoarse chuckle and took a step toward her, invading her personal space. Yuna could smell the stale tobacco on his breath as he leaned slightly toward her, his physical mass blocking her exit.

“Of course. Come here,” he ordered.

Yuna walked toward the table, feeling every step make the fabric slide against her skin, damp from nervous sweat. Mr. Han extended a fat hand and pointed to the next garment. Yuna took it and felt her heart skip a beat. It was a one-piece swimsuit in a deep, shiny navy blue. At first glance, it looked like one of those Japanese school swimming uniforms, but touching the fabric, she realized it was much more provocative.

The material was a thick, glossy lycra that promised to squeeze the body like a second skin. The neckline was slightly lower than normal, and the bottom had an extremely high cut on the legs, designed to rise almost to the waist, leaving very little space to cover the intimate area.

“Mr. Han… this is a swimsuit,” she stammered, feeling her cheeks heat up. “Why would I use this in a photo studio? There's no pool here.”

The man snorted, making his double chin vibrate, and looked at her with predatory intensity.

“Princess, don't be naive,” he whispered, his voice sounding like sandpaper on wood. “In avant-garde photography, the use of synthetic, shiny materials creates fascinating reflections. I want to see how the light bounces off the blue lycra and highlights the paleness of your skin. It’s a study in chromatic contrasts and textures. Don't you want the photos to be perfect so you can wipe out your debt?”

The mention of the rent was like a whip. Yuna squeezed the blue fabric between her fingers, feeling the coldness of the material. Her breasts heaved rapidly; she was starting to feel overwhelmed, but financial desperation was a chain forcing her forward.

“Okay,” she murmured, looking down. “I’ll put it on.”

She went back to the changing room with her heart hammering in her ears. Taking off the previous set, a shiver ran down her spine. Her fingers trembled as she tried to slide into the blue swimsuit. The garment was incredibly small and tight; she had to pull hard to get it up her thighs, feeling the lycra stick to her damp skin with a dull sound.

When she finally managed to get it on, she let out a small gasp. The swimsuit compressed her breasts, lifting them and pushing them up, creating a deep cleavage that revealed the start of her areolas. But the worst part was the bottom: the high cut forced the fabric to sink deeply between her glutes, while the tension in the front marked the curve of her mons pubis with obscene clarity. She looked at herself in the mirror and felt a sudden heat rise through her belly; she looked like a swimming student, yes, but a dangerously eroticized version.

“Yuna! I’ve waited long enough!” Mr. Han's shout echoed from the other side of the curtain.

Yuna closed her eyes for a second, took a breath, and opened the curtain.

The effect was immediate. Mr. Han froze. His small eyes widened to their limit and his jaw dropped slightly. The man's gaze descended with torturous slowness: it started at her trembling lips, went down her pale neck, stopped at the tension of the blue lycra over her tits, and finally dropped to the extremely high line of her thighs.

“My God…” he whispered in a hoarse voice. “You are a damn work of art, Yuna.”

Yuna felt her skin prickle under that gaze. Heat rose through her cheeks and down to her chest, making her nipples harden against the blue fabric. She felt small and vulnerable, but the voracity with which the man watched her caused an involuntary tremble in her legs.

“Is… is it okay for the light?” she asked, her voice cracking.

Mr. Han didn't answer immediately. Instead, he raised the camera and took a series of quick photos. The sound of the shutter (click-click-click) filled the silence, marking the rhythm of her heartbeats.

“It’s okay… but we need the pose to be more natural,” he said, moving toward her with heavy steps, his belly oscillating under his shirt. “Arch your back a bit more, princess. I want the fabric to stretch tighter over your ass. Yes… like that… just like that.”

Yuna arched her back according to the instructions, feeling the blue lycra stretch to its limit. The material was so elastic yet firm that she felt her tits being pushed up, almost overflowing from the neckline, while at the bottom, the fabric sank hard into the crevice of her ass. The sensation was suffocating and, at the same time, strangely exciting; she felt vacuum-packed, every inch of her skin compressed by the suit.

The sound of the shutter kept echoing: click… click… click.

“No, no…” Mr. Han grunted, lowering the camera slowly. “The hip line isn't perfect. You’re too stiff, princess. If you want these photos to be worth the rent, you have to let go. You have to let your body speak.”

Yuna swallowed hard, feeling a lump in her throat. Her legs trembled slightly and she could feel a treacherous dampness starting to accumulate between her thighs, where the blue lycra pressed directly against her pussy. It was a visceral reaction she couldn't control; fear and vulnerability were triggering a physical response that made her feel dirty.

“I’m sorry… it’s just that I’ve never done this,” she whispered, looking down.

“That’s why I’m here to guide you,” he responded.

Yuna felt a shift in the air before she felt the contact. Mr. Han had moved so close that his obese belly almost brushed against Yuna's glutes. The heat emanating from the man was suffocating, and the smell of stale tobacco and sweat became omnipresent, enveloping her like a heavy blanket.

Suddenly, she felt fat, warm hands closing around her hips.

Yuna let out an audible gasp, a small choked cry that hung in the air. Mr. Han's fingers weren't delicate; they dug into the flesh of her waist with a possessive strength, squeezing the blue lycra against her skin. The contrast was brutal: Yuna's soft skin against the rough and damp texture of the landlord's hands.

“Look in the mirror, Yuna,” he ordered in a voice that no longer sounded professional. “Look closely. Look at how that blue suit marks every damn curve of your body. You were made for this.”

Yuna forced her eyes to look at the reflection in the giant mirror. She saw her own face—flushed and scared—and then looked down at her hips, where Mr. Han's hands highlighted the paleness of her skin against the shiny blue of the swimsuit. The man began moving his hands slowly, sliding his fingers downward, following the line of the suit's high cut.

“Your hips are perfect…” he murmured, and Yuna felt a fat finger dangerously brush the edge of the fabric covering her pubis. “But you’re too tense down here. If you don't relax, the fabric wrinkles and the photo comes out wrong.”

Yuna closed her eyes tight, feeling her heart hammering in her ears. The touch of Mr. Han's finger against the lycra, right over her most sensitive area, caused an electric shiver to run through her entire spine. Her nipples became hard as rocks, poking the blue fabric of the swimsuit.

“You feel that, don't you?” Mr. Han whispered in Yuna's ear, his hot, damp breath hitting her skin. “You feel how this suit squeezes you… you feel how much I want you while you pose for me.”

Yuna wanted to protest, wanted to tell him to stop, but the words got stuck in her throat. There was something about the situation—the weight of the man behind her, the humiliation of being almost naked, and the fact that her home depended on this man—that left her paralyzed in a state of animal submission.

“Open your legs wider,” he ordered, his voice now loaded with open lust. “I want the camera to capture exactly how the suit sinks between your legs. Do it now, princess, or we can start talking again about the three months of rent you owe me.”

Yuna felt a tremor run through her whole body. Slowly, with tense muscles and shortness of breath, she began to separate her feet, opening her legs. The movement made the blue lycra stretch even further over her mons pubis, marking the crevice of her pussy with obscene clarity under the white light of the studio.

Mr. Han let out a grunt of satisfaction and raised the camera again, but this time he didn't stay put. He leaned in, lowering the lens to capture the most intimate angle possible, while his hands continued to squeeze her hips, reminding Yuna that, at this moment, she was no longer a model… she was his property.

The sound of the shutter became frantic. Click-click-click. Mr. Han wasn't taking artistic photos; he was documenting Yuna's vulnerability from the most obscene angles possible. He was crouched down, the lens almost touching the blue fabric sinking into her crotch, while she remained there, legs open and trembling, feeling like a sacrificial animal.

“Look at this…” he grunted, without taking his eye off the camera. “Look at how your pussy is marked through the lycra, princess. You’re so turned on that the suit is starting to darken from the moisture.”

Yuna felt her heart skip. She looked down and, indeed, a small darker spot was beginning to form in the crotch area of the blue swimsuit. Shame hit her like an electric shock, but at the same time, the humiliation of being caught in her state of involuntary arousal caused a spasm of pleasure that made her arch her back.

“N-no… it’s not true…” she stammered, though her own legs were starting to give way.

“Don't lie, you slut,” Mr. Han spat, and the sudden shift to vulgar language made Yuna shudder. “You’re soaking. You love that a fat old man like me has you like this, forcing you to open up so I can see what you're worth.”

The man let the camera hang from his neck and, with a sudden movement, extended his fat hand toward her. There were no preludes. His fingers clamped onto Yuna's mons pubis, pressing the blue lycra hard against her clitoris.

Yuna let out a sharp moan, a sound that mixed disgust with an animal, electric pleasure. She threw her head back, her eyes going white for a second and her fingers digging into her own thighs. The pressure of the synthetic fabric, combined with the strength of the man's fingers, was creating an unbearable friction.

“Ah…! S-sr. Han!” she cried out, but it wasn't a cry of rejection; it was a confused plea.

“What’s wrong, princess? You like it when I touch you like this?” he mocked, starting to move his fingers in fast, heavy circles over the blue fabric. “Imagine what they’d say at your college if they saw the brilliant Fine Arts student here, moaning like a whore while her landlord rubs her pussy for a few won.”

Yuna was shaking violently. The smell of tobacco and sweat from the man was now suffocating, but she could no longer pull away; her legs were so wide that she felt totally exposed. Every time Han's fingers pressed harder, Yuna felt her mind clouding. The blue lycra was acting as a filter that intensified the sensation, trapping heat and moisture between her skin and the fabric.

“P-please… stop…” she whispered, although her hips began to move unconsciously forward, seeking more pressure.

“You’re not asking me to stop; you’re asking me to keep fucking you with my fingers,” he responded with a hoarse, lustful laugh. “But this is just the warm-up. I want to see your face when you feel something bigger than my fingers inside you.”

Mr. Han stood up slowly, his physical mass casting a huge shadow over Yuna. With a brusque movement, he grabbed her by the arm and forced her to kneel on the cold studio floor. Yuna fell heavily, her knees hitting the hard surface, while the blue swimsuit stretched even further over her glutes, leaving her in a position of total submission.

“Now, look at the camera,” he ordered, placing the camera on a tripod in front of her. “I want you to watch yourself while you serve me. I want you to see how you become my slut to pay your rent.”

Yuna looked into the lens of the camera and saw her own reflection: a beautiful girl, dressed in a tight blue swimming uniform, kneeling and trembling. She felt small, broken, and desperately needy. Mr. Han began to unbutton his pants, and the sound of the metal sliding was the final signal that there was no turning back.

“Open your mouth, princess,” he grunted, as his cock—thick and throbbing—sprang out of his underwear. “Let’s see if you know how to use your tongue as well as you use your paintbrush.”

Mr. Han's cock appeared before Yuna's eyes like a monument to decay and lust. It was thick, veiny, and had a dark reddish color that contrasted violently with the paleness of Yuna's skin. The smell hit her immediately: a strong mix of musk, stale sweat, and that metallic, salty aroma characteristic of exposed flesh.

Yuna felt her stomach churn, but at the same time, an electric spasm ran through her pussy, which was already soaking the blue lycra of the swimsuit. Her pupils were dilated, fixed on that throbbing member that seemed to claim its space in the room.

“What’s wrong, princess? Scared of the size?” Han mocked, his voice loaded with a slimy malice. “Don't worry, I'm going to show you exactly how much your rent is worth.”

He didn't wait for her to respond. With a fat, heavy hand, he grabbed her by the hair, forcing her to tilt her head up and open her mouth. Yuna let out a small moan of protest that turned into a gasp when she felt the wet, hot tip of the cock brushing against her full lips.

“Open your fucking mouth wide and suck me like your life depends on it—because your roof does,” he grunted.

Yuna closed her eyes tight as she felt the member invade her oral cavity. The taste was a brutal shock: salty, strong, with an aftertaste of tobacco and old skin. When the cock entered deep into her throat, Yuna felt her gag reflex trigger instantly. Her eyes filled with tears and her hands clenched into fists on the cold studio floor.

“Ggg-ghhh!” she erupted in a muffled sound as her throat closed against the intrusion.

“Swallow it all, bitch,” Han ordered, pushing further inside. “Look at the camera while you do it. Look! I want you to see how you look while you suck my dick so you don't end up on the street.”

Yuna opened her eyes and saw the lens of the tripod right in front of her. She saw herself: a beautiful girl, her face contorted by nausea and forbidden pleasure, dressed in that tight blue swimsuit that marked her squeezed breasts and rounded ass while she was on her knees. The humiliation acted like fuel; she felt heat rise through her legs and concentrate in her clitoris, which throbbed violently against the fabric of the suit.

Mr. Han began to thrust into her mouth with rhythmic, aggressive movements. Every time he went deep, Yuna felt her cheeks puff out and saliva start to leak from the corners of her lips, running down her chin. The sound of flesh hitting her face—a dull clap-clap—mixed with the man's heavy panting.

“That’s it… suck it just like that, you college slut,” he grunted, his fingers digging into Yuna's scalp to control the depth. “Imagine this is your new scholarship. Every inch you swallow is another day in your apartment.”

Yuna began to adapt to the rhythm, moving her head with animal desperation. Despite the initial disgust, the fact that she was being recorded and degraded was leading her into a trance. She started using her tongue, wrapping it around the circumference of the cock and sucking hard, while her nipples poked against the blue lycra due to the spasms of her body.

Mr. Han let out a guttural grunt, feeling the wet, hot pressure of Yuna's mouth.

“Dammit… you have an exquisite mouth,” he whispered, though his tone remained cruel. “But I’m not settling for this. I want to feel how that blue swimsuit stretches while I open your legs and put this cock all the way inside you.”

Yuna felt a shiver of terror and anticipation. While she continued sucking, she could feel the man starting to tense up, preparing for the next level of the transaction. The camera's shutter sounded again, capturing the exact moment Yuna, her eyes clouded by submission, sank deeper and deeper into Mr. Han's depravity.

Mr. Han grabbed her arm with a brusqueness that made Yuna let out a moan of surprise. There was no delicacy, only a brute, possessive strength that forced her to walk toward the center of the room. The sound of the man's heavy steps behind her, along with his hoarse and damp breathing, created a suffocating atmosphere.

“Get on the table, princess. Right now,” he ordered, pointing to the dark, cold wooden surface that served as an improvised photo set.

Yuna felt a shiver run down her spine. Her legs trembled so much she almost tripped while climbing up, but Mr. Han's grip on her waist pushed her up with a sharp shove. Feeling her bare skin against the freezing wood of the table, Yuna let out a gasp and instinctively hunched her shoulders. Her nipples hardened instantly, poking through the blue lycra of the swimsuit that kept her vacuum-packed like a gift.

“Open your legs,” Han grunted, positioning himself between her thighs. “Wider. I don't want there to be an inch of mystery here. Open that pussy so the lens can see everything.”

Yuna obeyed with her gaze lowered, feeling the heat rise in her face. Slowly, she separated her legs, letting her knees fall to the sides. The position was degrading; she felt totally exposed, a piece of meat on display under the harsh white lights of the studio. Her thighs trembled from the intensity of the moment and she could feel the moisture accumulated in her crotch, making the blue fabric stick to her skin with a dull sound every time she tried to move.

Mr. Han didn't rush. He stepped back a few paces to adjust the camera tripod, moving the lens with obsessive precision. Yuna watched him with clouded eyes, seeing how that obese and sweaty man ensured the angle was perfect: a low-angle shot that captured everything from her squeezed breasts to the crevice of her sex.

“Perfect…” he whispered, his voice sounding like a dirty caress. “Look at the screen, Yuna. Look closely.”

Yuna turned her head toward the camera monitor. She saw her own reflection: a beautiful girl, her face distorted by submission, dressed in that blue uniform that highlighted every curve of her body. She looked small and vulnerable, but the way the suit sank into her pubis made her look obscenely provocative.

“You were made to be used, princess,” Han said, approaching her again. “Look at you… you’re so turned on that the swimsuit is starting to darken.”

The man extended his fat hand and, instead of removing the garment, he grabbed the edge of the blue swimsuit at the hip. With a sudden, sharp movement, he pulled the lycra to one side. He didn't take it off entirely; he simply shifted the fabric toward her left thigh, leaving her pussy completely exposed while the top part of the suit continued to squeeze her breasts against her chest.

Yuna let out a choked cry when she felt the cold air hitting her soaked vaginal lips directly. The sensation of being "half-dressed," with her torso packed in lycra but her intimate area open and vulnerable, increased the psychological tension to an unbearable point.

“What’s wrong, bitch? You like it when I expose you like this?” he mocked, his small eyes glinting with lust. “Look at how your pussy shines under the lights. It’s a damn masterpiece.”

Mr. Han leaned over her, and the smell of stale tobacco and sweat enveloped her completely. Yuna felt her breathing become short and erratic. She could feel the man's cock—thick and throbbing—brushing against the wood of the table just below her glutes.

“All this beauty… all this exquisite body,” he murmured, while a fat, damp finger began to trace slow circles over her clitoris. “And it all belongs to whoever pays the bills. Do you have any idea how much your rent is worth right now, Yuna?”

“S-sr. Han… please…” she stammered, although her hips moved unconsciously toward the man's finger, seeking more pressure.

“Shut up and enjoy the view,” he ordered, looking back at the camera monitor. “I want you to see exactly when you stop being an art student and become my personal slut.”

Yuna closed her eyes for a second, feeling humiliation mix with an animal, electric pleasure. She was there, lying on a table, with the blue swimsuit shifted and her sex exposed to the lens of a camera and the voracious gaze of a man who owned her completely. She knew what came next would be brutal, but the anticipation had her so lubricated she felt she could overflow at any moment.

Mr. Han pulled back just a few inches—just enough for Yuna to see the magnitude of what was about to enter her. His cock was a red and veiny weapon, throbbing with violent urgency. The tip, glistening with pre-cum, brushed against the entrance of Yuna's pussy, leaving a trail of hot moisture that made her shiver.

Yuna let out a long gasp, feeling her thighs trembling violently against the cold wood of the table. Her breathing was ragged and her eyes were clouded; the smell of stale tobacco now mixed with the metallic fragrance of pure arousal.

“Look at it, Yuna… look at how it wants you,” he grunted, rubbing the head of his cock against her clitoris in a slow, torturous movement. “You’re so wet you could slide just by looking at yourself.”

Yuna closed her eyes, feeling the friction of the glans against her sensitive skin. Every touch was like an electric shock running up her spine. Her nipples, trapped under the blue lycra, felt like hard stones poking the fabric with every agitated breath.

“Who was the last one in here?” Han asked suddenly, his voice loaded with malicious curiosity. “Don't give me that innocent face, princess. I know you’re not a virgin… it shows in how you wet yourself, in how your body already knows exactly what to do when a man has you like this.”

Yuna felt her face burn. The question hit her harder than any physical contact; it reminded her of her own past encounters—moments that now felt insignificant compared to the rawness of this situation.

“I-it… it doesn't matter…” she stammered, though her voice sounded small and broken.

“It matters a lot,” he laughed, a hoarse laugh that ended in a snort. “I wonder if those guys were as delicate with you. I bet they treated you like a little porcelain doll… but now here you are, legs open on a table, waiting for a fat, disgusting old man to fill your hole for a few won so you don't end up on the street.”

The humiliation was the final spark. Yuna felt her pussy throbbing with a painful force, pressing moisture against the wood. The idea of being degraded—of going from "brilliant student" to "rent slut"—caused a spasm of animal pleasure that left her breathless.

“S-sr. Han… please… enough talking!” she pleaded, arching her back and instinctively seeking contact.

The man let out a grunt of satisfaction and, without warning, slammed the tip of his cock into Yuna's entrance. It wasn't a fast movement; it was a slow, constant, and brutal pressure.

“Ahhh…!” Yuna's scream got caught in her throat, turning into a muffled moan as she felt her vaginal walls stretch to their limit.

The sensation was overwhelming. Mr. Han's cock was so thick that Yuna felt like she was being split in two. She could feel every vein, every ridge of the man's flesh forcing its way in, displacing everything in its path. The contrast was visceral: the cold wood against her back and the scorching heat of the cock filling her completely.

“God… you’re so tight!” Han grunted, clenching his teeth as he continued to push inch by inch. “Feel how I open you up, bitch… feel how I stretch you so all my weight fits.”

Yuna's gaze was lost in the studio ceiling, her pupils dilated and her mouth open in a perpetual gasp. She felt a massive internal pressure—a fullness that left her breathless and made her feel vulnerable on a cellular level. Every inch he advanced was another surrender.

Finally, with a sharp, powerful thrust that made the table creak under their weight, Mr. Han entered to the hilt. The clash of their pelvises produced a wet, dull sound that echoed in the silence of the studio.

Yuna let out a prolonged scream—a sound that mixed the pain of stretching with an animal satisfaction she had never experienced. She was completely full; she felt the man's cock hitting her cervix, claiming every corner of her interior. She stayed there, frozen, feeling her body shake in involuntary spasms while Mr. Han remained still for a moment, enjoying the sensation of having Yuna totally submitted and open beneath him.

“Look at you now, princess,” he whispered in her ear, his hot breath burning her skin. “Now you really are a work of art… my very own personal slut.”

The silence of the studio was annihilated by the first brusque movement. Mr. Han didn't start delicately; he withdrew almost completely, letting Yuna feel the cold void for a fraction of a second, only to then slam back in with a violent force that made the entire table slide several inches across the floor.

“Ggg-hh!” Yuna's scream was a muffled sound, a blast of air shot from her lungs as her head hit the wooden surface.

The impact was brutal. The man's cock entered like a battering ram, hitting her cervix with a precision that was painful and exciting at once. Yuna felt the world blur; only the deafening rhythm of flesh hitting flesh existed. Clap… clap… clap. A wet, dull, rhythmic sound filling the room, marking the cadence of her degradation.

“Feel this, bitch!” Han roared, his voice now a guttural growl. “Feel how I break your body for a few won!”

Yuna couldn't speak. Her hands gripped the edges of the table so hard her knuckles were white, while her legs, opened to the max, shook in involuntary spasms. Every thrust pushed her backward, making her body bounce against the cold wood.

The sensory contrast was suffocating. She felt the cold of the studio on her back and the volcanic heat of Mr. Han's cock tearing through her interior. Her breasts, squeezed by the blue lycra of the swimsuit, bounced violently with every hit, creating a hypnotic movement that the man watched with voracious lust. The synthetic fabric, soaked in sweat and moisture, clung to her skin, marking her erect nipples that poked the cloth with every shake.

“Look at me, Yuna! Look at how I fuck you!” he screamed, his fat, sweaty hands dropping from her hips to squeeze her breasts through the blue suit. “Where is your artist's pride now? Where is the brilliant student? Now you’re just a hole that needs to be filled.”

Yuna let out a broken moan, a mix of sobbing and animal pleasure. The disgust she had felt at first was being devoured by a treacherous physiological response. Her pussy had become a source of uncontrollable lubrication; every time Mr. Han entered, the sound of fluid splashing between their bodies was obscenely loud. She was so wet that the friction was no longer painful, but an electric fire running through her nerves to her brain.

“Ah… ah…! S-sr. Han… more… please, more!” she pleaded, and the sound of her own voice asking for more triggered a wave of humiliation that only served to excite her further.

She was no longer fighting the act; she had surrendered to the tide of sensations. Her hips began to move in sync with the man's, seeking the deepest impact, wanting to feel that thickness filling her until there was room for nothing else. The smell of stale sweat and tobacco no longer repulsed her; it was the essence of the man who owned her, the aroma of the power that kept her under his control.

The rhythm became frantic. Mr. Han accelerated the thrusts, turning the session into a carnage of pleasure. His testicles slapped hard against Yuna's glutes, producing a fleshy, dirty sound that echoed in the studio. The obese mass of the man crushed Yuna against the table, suffocating her slightly, forcing her to breathe in short, desperate gasps.

“You’re a whore, Yuna! A soaking slut who loves that her landlord uses her like a rag!” he screamed at her, his fingers digging into the flesh of her thighs, leaving red marks on her pale skin.

Yuna closed her eyes and let herself be carried by the whirlwind. She felt how the blue lycra of the swimsuit, shifted to one side, brushed against her skin with every movement, adding a synthetic texture to the chaos of fluids and heat. She was on the very edge of the abyss, her internal muscles contracting rhythmically around the man's cock, trapping him in a desperate embrace as pleasure began to accumulate in her belly like an electric storm about to burst.

The camera continued capturing everything: the violent sway of their bodies, the expression of ecstasy and agony on Yuna's face, and the brutality of a man who didn't seek love, but the total destruction of his tenant's dignity.

The rhythm of the thrusts became unbearable—a constant bombardment that had Yuna on the verge of sensory blackout. Her screams had turned into short, erratic gasps, and her body bounced against the wood of the table with a force that threatened to break it. But Mr. Han wasn't satisfied; for him, seeing Yuna given over to pleasure wasn't enough. He wanted to see her broken; he wanted to feel that there wasn't a single corner of her body not under his absolute control.

“You’re very comfortable, aren't you, princess?” he grunted, his voice now darker and more dangerous. “You love how I fill you… but I think you still have too much free space down here.”

Yuna opened her eyes, confused by the man's tone. Before she could process his words, she felt Mr. Han's fat, sweaty hand descend her back, avoiding the vaginal area and sliding directly toward the crevice of her ass.

“W-what are you…?” Yuna managed to stammer, but the question was drowned out by a brutal thrust that left her breathless.

While Mr. Han continued fucking her pussy with rhythmic and ruthless violence, she felt a thick, damp finger press against the entrance of her anus. Yuna tensed instantly, her thighs shaking violently and her nails digging into the edges of the table.

“Don't move, bitch,” he ordered in a cold tone. “I want to see how much you can take before your body completely gives in.”

Without warning, Mr. Han's finger pushed inside.

“AAAAAAAAH!” Yuna's scream was heartbreaking—a sound of pure surprise and vulnerability that echoed through the studio.

The sensation was devastating. Yuna felt a massive pressure, a stretching that seemed to split her in two. The thick cock filled her from the front and the fat finger invaded her from behind; she was being claimed from both sides, reduced to a simple pleasure channel for the obese man. The feeling of "total fullness" was so intense it caused an electric shock through every nerve in her body, leaving her paralyzed in a state of sensory shock.

“Look at me! Look at the camera right now!” Han shouted, while he began to move his finger inside her ass in a slow, circular rhythm, simultaneously accelerating the thrusts in her vagina. “Look at how I open you up, Yuna. Look at how you become a complete slut. There is nothing of you that isn't mine right now.”

Yuna forced her eyes to look at the tripod monitor. The image was obscene: she saw her own body, with the blue swimsuit shifted and stained, swinging violently under Mr. Han's mass. …she saw the expression on her face, a mix of agony, disgust, and an ecstasy so deep it was terrifying. Seeing her own degradation in real-time was the final blow to her psyche; the mental barrier that still kept her as "the Fine Arts student" shattered into pieces.

“I-I’m… I’m your slut!” she screamed, her voice broken and her eyes filled with tears. “Fill me… please, fill me up! Open my ass, open my pussy, do whatever you want with me!”

Mr. Han let out a hoarse laugh, enjoying the total collapse of her will. The fact that she was begging for the degradation only fueled his lust. He began to move his finger inside her ass with more force, while his vaginal thrusts became frantic, almost violent.

The sound in the room was a dirty cacophony: the clap-clap of pelvises colliding, Yuna's desperate moans, and the wet noise of the finger moving inside her. The blue lycra of the swimsuit, which still covered her breasts, was soaked in sweat; every time the man hit her, the fabric stuck to her skin with a viscous sound.

Yuna felt like she was floating in an ocean of contradictory sensations. The pain of the anal stretching mixed with the massive pressure of the cock and the humiliation of being filmed, creating an electric storm in her belly that pushed her toward the abyss. Her internal muscles began to contract rhythmically around both intruders, trapping Mr. Han in a desperate embrace as she prepared for the end.

“I’m coming! Ahhh… I’m coming!” Yuna screamed, arching her back until her spine creaked, feeling the climax explode inside her, triggered by the sensation of being totally open and claimed.

Yuna's orgasm wasn't a clean burst, but a violent convulsion that shook every fiber of her body. Her vaginal walls clamped down in desperate spasms around Mr. Han's cock, while her anus gripped the man's fat finger in an instinctive, blind embrace. She let out a harrowing scream that echoed through the studio—a sound of pure surrender where dignity died to make room for an abject, animal need.

Mr. Han felt those contractions and let out a guttural roar. Instead of stopping, feeling her hit the limit triggered his own urgency. He accelerated his speed into blunt, brutal blows, turning the act into a final discharge of violence and pleasure.

“Look at me, bitch! Look at how I finish you!” he roared, grabbing her by the hair to force her face toward him. “I want you to see the face of the man who bought your body!”

Yuna's eyes were unfocused and her pupils dilated, saliva escaping from the corners of her lips as she gasped. The sound of flesh hitting flesh was deafening; the wet clap-clap became frantic, almost mechanical. The blue lycra of the swimsuit, still covering her torso, was drenched in sweat and fluids, sticking to her breasts which bounced violently with every impact.

“Feel this!” Han roared, delivering three final, deep, and devastating thrusts, burying himself to the root and expanding his cock inside her to the max.

At the exact moment Yuna sank into the tide of her orgasm, Mr. Han let out a hoarse moan and released a massive discharge of hot semen directly against her cervix. Yuna felt the rush of fluid like an electric current; the volume was such that she felt her interior fill to the brim—a warm, heavy pressure that anchored her to the table.

“Ahhh… God…!” she moaned, arching her back one last time before collapsing against the wood, completely empty.

The silence that followed was abrupt and suffocating. All that could be heard was Mr. Han's heavy, asthmatic breathing as he remained buried inside her, enjoying the weight of his own body crushing her. Yuna lay there with her legs open and her eyes fixed on the ceiling, feeling the semen slowly leak out, mixing with natural lubrication and staining the blue lycra of the swimsuit that was still pushed aside on her hip.

Slowly, Mr. Han withdrew. The sound of the cock sliding out of a soaked pussy was a wet, obscene pop that made Yuna let out a shaky sigh.

He didn't help her up or say a word of comfort. He simply stepped away, still panting, and went to the tripod. The sound of metal moving was the only noise in the room as he reviewed the recording.

Yuna remained lying on the table, feeling the cold of the studio seep into her damp skin. She looked down and saw the disaster: her blue swimsuit was dirty, displaced, and stained with fluids; her body had red marks on her thighs and waist where the man's hands had dug in hard. She felt light, but it was an empty lightness, as if something fundamental inside her had broken during those minutes of brutality.

“Wow…” Mr. Han murmured, looking at the screen with a slimy smile. “The angle is perfect. You look absolutely pathetic, Yuna. A real college slut.”

Yuna closed her eyes and let a single tear roll down her cheek. It wasn't just sadness; it was the visceral realization that Mr. Han was no longer just her landlord. He now possessed digital evidence of her submission—a file where she begged to be used just to save her roof.

“Clean up this mess and get dressed,” he ordered coldly, returning to his authoritative tone as he adjusted his pants. “Tomorrow I’ll wipe your debt, but don't get it twisted, princess. Now that I know what you're capable of, I think we're going to need these 'photo sessions' much more often.”

Yuna didn't answer. She couldn't. She only heard the sound of her own muffled sobs while she felt the man's semen dripping down her thighs, reminding her with every drop that the price of her rent had been far more expensive than she ever imagined.

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