It starts on a Monday with a punishment for some imagined slight—I think I smiled at the wrong waiter at dinner. That means a cane, six precise, searing strokes across my thighs that leave raised welts. He fucks me over his desk afterward, his hand pressed over the fresh marks.
Tuesday, it’s a “reward” for taking the cane so well. He ties me to a Saint Andrew’s cross in his private playroom anduses a bundle of silicone tentacles on me, the strange, sucking sensations driving me out of my mind before he finally knots me.
Wednesday, he’s in a pissy mood after a business meeting. He makes me suck him off in the back of his car during the entire drive across the city, gagging and choking around his cock with every pothole, while he calmly reads reports on his tablet.
Thursday feels like a marathon. Endless edging with a fucking machine, then anal hooks, then a fuck so deep and slow I genuinely think I might pass out from the sustained, grinding pressure.
By Friday night, when he has me bent over the footboard of his bed, using a short, thick strap-on in addition to his own cock in a brutal double penetration, I’m just... empty. My body has nothing left to give. My hole is so sore and overused that the initial stretch is a flash of pure agony that doesn’t even melt into pleasure. It just hurts. My skin is a canvas of yellowing bruises, half-healed bite marks, and raised welts. My nipples are chapped and raw, stinging whenever my shirt brushes against them. My cock is chafed and sensitive, the skin feeling thin and tight.
When he finally comes, biting a fresh bruise into my hip, I just slump forward, my forehead against the cool wood of the footboard. There’s no satisfaction, no floaty afterglow. Just a deep, aching exhaustion in every joint and muscle.
He slaps my ass, a casual, stinging tap. “Shower. You’re dripping on the floor.”
I move like an old man, limbs stiff and protesting. The hot water is a special kind of torture on my marked skin. I lean against the tile and close my eyes, letting it pound over me.
The next afternoon, my phone buzzes on the kitchen counter where I’m camped out, trying to eat a bowl of instant noodles without actually sitting down.
8 PM. The usual.
I stare at the text. My ass clenches involuntarily, a painful spasm. The thought of being touched, penetrated, used again so soon makes my stomach turn. I can’t. I just can’t.
For the first time since this whole fucked-up arrangement began, I ignore it. I let the screen go dark.
The back door to Wooil’s pawn shop shuts with a thunk as I slip in, huffing. Wooil glances up, turning his head from behind the counter, where he’s polishing a vintage camera lens with a microfiber cloth. His shrewd dark eyes sweep over me, taking in the way I’m moving a little stiffly, the fresh bruises peeking out from under the collar of my shirt.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” he says, his voice dry. “Or should I say, what the big bad gangster finally released.”
“Ha ha,” I mutter, coming up to lean against the glass countertop. It’s cool against my elbows. “You’re a riot.”
“Just an observation. You look like the walking dead.” He sets the lens down carefully. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Did he cut off your allowance?”
“No,” I say, and it comes out more defensive than I mean it to. “He’s not... it’s not an allowance.”
Wooil just arches an eyebrow, waiting.
I sigh, raking a hand through my hair. “Look, I need something to do. You got any side jobs? Anything that needs... I don’t know, moving? Collecting? Scaring someone mildly? I’m going stir-crazy.”
Wooil stares at me for a long moment, then lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. He pushes his reading glasses up onto his forehead. “Let me get this straight. You’re bonded to a guy who, from what I can piece together, owns half of Gangnam’sunderworld and is apparently funding your entire existence without you having to lift a finger. And you’re coming tomefor a side hustle?”
“I need to keep on my feet,” I insist, the frustration leaking into my voice. “I can’t just sit around waiting for him to text. I’ll lose my mind. Or what’s left of it.”
“Uh huh.” Wooil picks up the cloth and starts polishing the counter now, avoiding my eyes. “So when are we gonna get to meet this legendary big pusher, anyway? Me and the guys are starting to think you made him up. That you’ve just been getting your ass kicked by a particularly aggressive piece of gym equipment.”
The image is so ridiculous I almost smile. “Trust me, you don’t want to meet him. The guy’s a complete fucking psycho.”
Wooil’s lips quirk into a smirk. “Sounds perfect for you, then.”
I shrug, because he’s not wrong. “I enjoy the sadistic side. He’s... thorough. I’ll give him that.” I pause, picking at a chip in the glass counter. “I’m just not sure I’ve got a hook in anywhere else, you know? The emotional side is locked up tighter than a bank vault. I mean, he lets me walk around, so that’s something. Progress, I guess.”
“Does it have to be complicated?” Wooil asks, his tone turning uncharacteristically serious. He leans on the counter, his fox tattoo peeking out from under his rolled-up sleeve. “He seems fond of you, in his own messed-up way. The money, the... attention.” He gestures vaguely at my neck. “And let’s be real, Yujeong, you don’t exactly know how to operate in a relationship normally. This whole thing seems like an even match to me. You’re both disasters.”
“I suppose,” I grumble, because he’s right about that, too. My relationship history is a graveyard of broken expectations and people who couldn’t handle what I am. Suha can handle it. He more than handles it; he demands it. “I just wish he’d show someinitiative sometimes. Instead of just calling me over like I’m a delivery service. Maybe express some kind of desire that isn’t just about fucking me into next week or—”
The sound is not loud at first. It’s a sharptink, like a pebble hitting glass.
Then the world erupts.
The entire front window of the shop shatters inward in a roaring cascade. A thousand glittering shards explode into the space, catching the afternoon light as they fly. The noise is unbelievable—a deafening, violent crash that swallows my words and every other sound in the universe.
