sumarry. After debuting, hype came to the conclusion that Katseye needed a seventh member. So, when you joined, the girls who were used to being six weren’t exactly thrilled about the idea. As a result, they each started doing things individually to try to make you want to leave the group. But their methods… are quite peculiar.
content. g!p megan, g!p manon, humiliation, dirty talk, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, threesomes, mommy kink, degradation, others…
The first week was an exercise in endurance.
Dishes would appear in the kitchen like magic. Not the ones they used to eat from, but others: pots you didn't remember seeing, pans with dried food residue that seemed to have been there since the day before, Tupperware with two-day-old sauce stuck to the bottom. Everything would appear on the days it was your turn to clean. The first day you thought it was a coincidence, but then it became an obvious routine. You didn't say anything, didn't complain, but Yoonchae noticed on her own and every day she stayed with you until late, helping you, drying the dishes or just talking to you to make it more bearable.
The shower was another battle.
They had left you last for shower time, taking 15 minutes longer than usual, so by the time you got in, the water came out ice cold. When you came out with the towel wrapped around your body and droplets of cold water dripping down the back of your neck, Megan was leaning against the hallway wall with a smile that wasn't warm.
"Was it cold?" she asked, her voice so innocent it hurt. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her long legs stretched out, her head tilted like she was waiting for an answer she already knew.
"A little," you replied, and kept walking. You didn't give her the satisfaction of seeing you shiver more than you already had.
That night, Yoonchae found out what happened and offered you her spot the next day. When you told her it wasn't necessary, she shook her head with a determination you didn't expect from someone so young, with that mix of stubbornness and tenderness she seemed to save just for you.
That was the week: the other five making a sport of making your life miserable, and Yoonchae, the youngest, the one with the least obligation to help you, undoing every trap with impeccable patience.
But unfortunately for you, Yoonchae had to leave for a few days to go to Korea. A family visit, she said, and while she was happy to see her parents, she couldn't help feeling anxious about leaving you alone.
The dance studio felt denser than usual. Either it was the new choreography, or it was the shirt you'd chosen that morning — one of those that rides up every time you raise your arms, exposing a strip of skin — or it was the way the girls were looking at you in the mirror. Because yes, you had noticed. From the first day, from the conference room, you had felt their eyes following you when they thought you weren't looking. And today in particular, you felt like they were undressing you with their eyes.
You weren't stupid. You knew how this worked. You knew that people could hate you and want you at the same time, and if you made that desire stronger than the hatred, you had a way in. And with each day you spent there, you realized it was going to be much easier than you thought.
"Again," said the choreographer, a man with quick movements and a short temper, after the third failed run. He wiped his sweaty forehead and nodded toward Dani with his chin. "Dani, stay a little longer with her. Make sure she gets the rhythm."
The others dispersed as if they'd been waiting for that order — totally sweaty, tired, with their breathing accelerated. Within five minutes they were all heading out the door.
And you were left alone in the studio with Dani. Knowing it was the perfect opportunity to start your plan.
The mirror covering the front wall reflected your image and hers behind you: you in the shorts you'd chosen so short that morning, the shirt that had ridden up during the last rehearsals and that you hadn't bothered to pull down.
"Ready?" she said, her voice distant, measured. She stood in front of the mirror, marked the starting position with surgical precision, and waited.
The first run was tense. In the transition from the third to the fourth movement, where the weight had to shift from one leg to the other with a hip turn that came as naturally to them as breathing, you would lean a couple of centimeters more, doing it differently.
"That's not how it goes," Dani said, her voice carrying an edge she hadn't shown before. Her arms crossed again, her fingers pressing into her own forearms.
The second run was worse. You tried to copy her exactly, to silence your instinct, to move the way she wanted. You clenched your teeth, held back the urge to lengthen your movements, forced yourself to cut your gestures where she cut hers. But in the fifth movement, where the right arm had to cut through the air diagonally and stop abruptly, you prolonged it, gave it an emphasis that wasn't in the original choreography.
Dani clenched her jaw. A muscle in her cheek twitched, a tic you hadn't seen before.
"You're doing the same thing," she said, and her voice had dropped an octave, become rougher.
"I don't care if it's on purpose. The choreography is like this. It's not for everyone to do whatever they want."
The third run was the one that broke something.
Where Dani stopped the movement abruptly, you let your hip complete the arc. Where she kept her torso firm, you let your shoulders follow through. It was minimal. Barely perceptible. But Dani felt it like an attack.
"What are you doing?" she said, and her voice was no longer professional. It was personal. She had turned toward you, her arms dropped to her sides, her hands open, her fingers slightly curved like she was about to grab something.
"Dancing," you replied, holding her gaze.
"That's not dancing. That's doing whatever you want, expecting the others to follow you."
"I don't expect anyone to follow me."
"Then why can't you just do it the way you're told?"
"Because maybe the one doing it wrong is you."
The silence that followed was the kind that changes the temperature of a room. She looked at you, and in her eyes there was something that wasn't just anger. It was contained fire. And you, who had been waiting for this since she stayed behind in the studio, did nothing.
You let her come closer. You let her close the distance in three long strides, her legs moving with that power she had when she danced, when she was the best at what she did. You let her reach you. You let her push you against the wall.
Her body was pressed against yours, so close you could feel the heat radiating off her, the tension in her muscles, the way her chest rose and fell with breathing that was no longer controlled. Her face was inches from yours, her lips parted, her eyes dark, her pupils dilated until they almost swallowed her irises.
"Who do you think you are?" she said, her voice a cutting whisper, a razor blade grazing skin. "You think you're special because they chose you because of that damn pretty face?"
"You're not superior," Dani said, and her hands moved from your shoulders to your arms, her fingers wrapping around them, squeezing, digging into your flesh. "You're not better than us."
"So don't you ever talk to me like that again," Dani said, her voice dropping lower, becoming more dangerous, more intimate. "Understand?"
You nodded. Once. Slowly, but without paying much attention, really.
And then you kissed her. Her hands released your arms and found your waist, her fingers hooking into the waistband of the shorts you'd chosen so short on purpose that morning. Her tongue entered your mouth without asking permission. Her body pressed you against the mirror, and the cold glass contrasted with the heat of her hands, with the fire of her mouth, with the wetness already starting to form between your legs.
"You think you're so smart," she said against your mouth, her teeth biting your lower lip with just enough force to make you feel she was the one in charge. Her hand squeezed your hip, her fingers pressing the bone, her palm flat against your skin. "You walk in here with that innocent face, with those shorts that barely cover you. You think I didn't notice?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," you said, and a smile escaped before you could control it. You knew you'd done it on purpose, because you wanted her to know.
Her hand moved down to the waistband of your shorts, letting the fabric slide down your thighs, past your knees, until it fell to the floor. Your underwear followed, a sharp tug leaving it tangled with your shorts on the ground. The studio air hit your bare skin and you shivered.
Her fingers found your center before you could prepare yourself. They brushed your entrance, felt the wetness, the warmth, and when she brought them to her mouth, sucking them slowly, her eyes never left yours.
"Liar," she said, the word a whisper that ran through your entire body. "You say you don't know what I'm talking about but your pussy is soaked."
You didn't answer. You bit your lip, leaned your head against the mirror, and let her do what she wanted. But Dani didn't want you to stay still. She wanted to see you break.
Her hand returned between your legs, her fingers parting your lips with an intimacy that made you hold your breath. Her middle finger grazed your clit, barely a touch, just long enough for your hips to move forward seeking more. And then she stopped.
"Look," she said, her voice rough, strained. Her finger was still there, still, barely pressing, making you feel every beat of your own pulse against her fingertip. "Look how I make you."
"Dani," you said, the word coming out more broken than you wanted, more needy.
"What?" she asked, her finger tracing a slow circle around your clit, a circle that took an eternity to complete, leaving you breathless, your fingers gripping the mirror. "What do you want?"
"Like this?" she said, and pushed two fingers in at once.
It wasn't slow. It wasn't gentle. It was a dry, deep entry that made you arch your back and cry out against her shoulder. Her fingers moved inside you with a relentless rhythm, each thrust accompanied by the brush of her palm against your clit, each withdrawal leaving you empty for just a second before filling you again. The sound was obscene, wet, mixing with your moans and her ragged breathing.
"So this is what you wanted," she said against your neck, her mouth biting the skin, sucking, marking. "To provoke me. To make me lose control. To get fucked against the mirror like the slut you are. Say it."
"I'm a slut," you said, the words coming out between moans, without shame, because shame had disappeared the moment her fingers entered you.
"A slut who danced badly on purpose so I'd stay."
"Yes," you admitted, and the confession freed you more than you expected. "Yes."
Her thumb found your clit and began moving in circles while her fingers kept pumping in and out. The combination was too much, exactly what you needed, more than you could handle.
Her rhythm accelerated again, her fingers moving inside you with an intensity that blurred your vision, her thumb pressing against your clit with the exact force to bring you to the edge without letting you fall.
"You're going to come," Dani said, and it wasn't a question. "You're going to come now. And then you're going to apologize for every time you did the choreography wrong."
"Oh god, Daniela please," you said, the word drowning in a moan.
"Three times," she said, and there was something almost amused in her voice. "You messed up three times. So you're going to come three times. One for each mistake. And I'm going to count."
Her free hand moved up to your throat, her fingers circling your neck without squeezing, just resting there, just so you could feel they were there. Her thumb pressed just below your jaw, feeling your accelerated pulse, feeling how your heart beat to the rhythm of her fingers inside you.
"Come on, come for me," she said.
Her thumb on your clit sped up, her fingers inside you curved, finding that spot, that place that made your legs tremble and your vision blur. The orgasm grabbed you before you could prepare, a wave that started in your belly and spread through your whole body, shaking you against the mirror, tearing a cry from you that bounced off the empty studio walls.
Dani didn't stop. Her fingers kept moving, her thumb kept rubbing, prolonging the orgasm until it started to hurt, until tears burned your eyes, until your body no longer knew if it wanted more or wanted it to stop.
"Look at the mess you're making," she said with a wide, wicked smile.
The second orgasm came before the first one finished, overlapping, more intense. Your back arched against the mirror, your head hit the glass, and a stream of hot liquid came out of you, soaking her fingers, her wrist, the floor. You screamed her name, or something like it, while she kept moving, kept pushing you higher, kept denying you rest.
Your body no longer belonged to you. Every muscle was tense, every nerve on fire, and when the third orgasm came, you felt it from the center of your pelvis to the tips of your fingers, a discharge that made your knees buckle, that made you lose your footing, that made you release another stream, and another, and another, soaking the studio floor.
Dani held you up. She grabbed you by the waist before you could fall, kept you standing against the mirror while your body convulsed, while the spasms kept shaking you, while the liquid kept dripping down your thighs and forming a puddle on the wooden floor. Her hand on your neck supported your head, her forehead was pressed against yours, and you were breathing the same hot air, the thick air of the empty studio.
When the spasms calmed, when your breathing stopped being a constant pant and became something closer to normal, Dani pulled her fingers out of you. Slowly. Making you feel every inch, every knuckle, every part of her withdrawing from inside you.
She stayed like that for a moment, looking at you. Your lips were swollen from biting them, your cheeks wet with tears, your shirt hiked up to just below your chest, your shorts on the floor next to your underwear, the mess between your thighs soaking everything. And she was there, her pants still on, her clothes almost untouched, her fingers glistening with your liquid.
"Now," she said, her voice rough but firm. "Apologize."
You swallowed. Your legs were trembling, your hands still gripping the edge of the mirror behind you, your whole body vibrating from the three orgasms she had pulled out of you.
"Sorry," you said, your voice a thread, barely a whisper.
Dani smiled. It was a small, dangerous smile that didn't reach her eyes but settled on her lips like a mark.
"I like it when you apologize. If you want to stay here, you'll have to learn to be here," she said, her voice full of anger, a small hint that if you didn't like it, you could leave, though she herself knew that after this, she didn't want you to go.
"Clean," she said, bringing her fingers to your mouth.
Your lips parted before her fingers reached you, and you took them, sucked them, tasted your own flavor mixed with the sweat from her hand, with the heat of her skin, with everything that had happened in the last few minutes. Your tongue slid between her fingers, cleaning them, and she watched you do it with narrowed eyes, her breathing still agitated, her chest rising and falling under her shirt.
"Good girl," she said, and the word "good" sounded almost like an insult, or like a prize, or like both at the same time.
She pulled her fingers from your mouth. Let you go. Took a step back, and you stayed leaning against the mirror, your legs trembling, your shirt hiked up, your shorts on the floor, the mess between your thighs soaking everything around you.
"Clean up that mess," she said, nodding toward the floor with her chin. "The studio is being used early tomorrow."
She turned around. Walked toward the door with firm, steady steps that revealed nothing.
And you, against the mirror, with your legs trembling, with your shorts in your hand, with your shirt hiked up, with your whole body still vibrating, smiled.
Because you knew perfectly well that you already had one.
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