thelastdrop

[thelastdrop]

Symbiosis (Twice Momo, Le sserafim Kazuha)

23k words —————

The fourth floor of the office building is filled with a palpable amount of energy. A vigor so infectious, it has spread through everyone like the plague. 

Yes, every single person in that room can’t wait for what you have to say. You can tell by their face that they’re really, really excited.

Of course, none of that is true: these people can’t wait for you to get your little announcement over and done with so they can get back to work.

“So as previously mentioned, we will be undergoing a corporate restructuring in two weeks time,” you say to your enthusiastic audience of employees, their expressions brimming with dread, despair and defeat. Apathy isn’t enough to mask what they’re feeling. It’s the last thing they want to hear on a Monday morning. The likelihood of losing their jobs in such a volatile economy is not a promising sign of a work week. “I know it’s gonna suck for some of you, but it is what it is—profits over employees. You probably should have expected it when you joined this company. Don’t shoot the messenger; at least I can be transparent about telling you about this because anyone else in my position would probably get lynched.”

What you’re saying is partially true; everyone knows they can’t get their hands on the regional director’s nepo baby—or in this case, you. It’s a job thrust upon you ever since reaching the age of maturity, not something you wanted any part of in the first place. Nevertheless, at your father’s insistence, you’re enlisted as his personal emissary, relaying information from upstairs because he can’t be bothered to hire someone else to do the work. The last time he did, the poor guy was paid millions from health insurance and settlement charges.

‘Cost cutting,’ his voice echoes in your mind, despite the fact that the company is making record profits and is worth billions in net worth. It’s greed speaking, not your actual dad. At this point, the sin has taken over his personality more than the person that raised you lovingly during your childhood.

“That will be all. You may all return to your offices now,” you say, and most of them file out from the employees’ meeting room as quickly as they shuffled in. It’s a cold, thankless job.

However, two people remain, choosing to wait by the exit doors, seemingly waiting for you to meet them. Momo and Kazuha—your two favorite employees in the company. If there’s any pair of employees in your company that deserve to be kicked out the least, then they should be at the top of that list.

—————

“Boss!” their collective voices meet in unison before crescending into a deafening mess, matching you in walking pace as you head towards the elevator. The older Japanese woman deploys her hands underneath your stack of folders and paperwork, catching them effortlessly while you’re still moving. The younger woman, seven years her junior, has your fresh iced coffee in hand, which you promptly take and drink. Together, they yap on about the week’s schedules, business meetings, and other incomprehensible jargon that mixes together to make complete and utter nonsense. 

Just the way you like your Mondays.

Joining you inside the executive elevator, usually reserved only for top company brass, they’re given special access as they also happen to be your personal assistants. Mostly relegating all the tiresome work to them while you sit back in your private office and wait for Dad to call you about his next client that you must represent on his behalf.

It’s something you’ll take advantage of—having two subordinates relieving you of all the mundane shit while you take all the credit. You’ll let them bore you to death. Meanwhile, your mind is already thinking about lunch.

By the time you reach the 18th floor, your drink is already finished, so you hand it back to Kazuha for disposal. Retrieving the stack of paperwork  you’ve passed onto Momo, you enter your private office to do some actual work.

—————

The mountain of paperwork mocks you from the mahogany desk. You’ve been staring at the same quarterly expenditure report for 43 minutes. The numbers blur into grey sludge. Outside your floor-to-ceiling windows, Seoul pulses with indifferent energy—a stark contrast to the stifling silence of your oversized office. 

Your pen taps a frantic, useless rhythm against the leather blotter. Focus. Just sign the damn thing.

Instead, your hand drifts over to your phone, scrolling through meaningless notifications. 

Lunch. You need lunch. Anything to escape this gilded cage.

A knock. Sharp, efficient. Momo enters without waiting, her heels clicking a precise staccato on the polished concrete. She deposits a fresh stack of folders—thicker than the one you’re failing to conquer—beside the existing monument to corporate tedium. Her expression is professionally neutral, but you catch the faintest arch of an eyebrow and worried smile as she digests your untouched work.

“The revised contracts from Legal, sir. Require your signature by end-of-day. The Henderson merger timelines are also flagged for your review.” Her voice is smooth, devoid of judgment, yet it feels like an indictment.

“Right. Henderson.” You wave a dismissive hand, the gesture encompassing the entire desk, your inadequacy. “Leave it. I’ll get to it.”

Momo nods once, a silent acknowledgment of the lie. Her gaze flicks to the dying pen in your hand. 

“Shall I fetch another pen, sir? Or perhaps refresh your coffee?” Kazuha materializes in the doorway as if summoned, holding a sleek tablet, her eyes already scanning the screen. She’s younger, her energy less contained than Momo’s razor-sharp focus, but no less formidable.

“Coffee,” you grunt, the word tasting like ash. “Strong. Black.”

Kazuha flashes a quick, bright smile that doesn’t quite reach her watchful eyes. “On it, boss.” She vanishes as silently as she appeared. Momo lingers a fraction of a second longer, her presence a quiet pressure, before turning on her heel and exiting, closing the door with a soft, definitive click.

Alone again. The silence amplifies the frantic buzzing in your skull. You pick up the Henderson file. The words swim, scatter like fish in a pond. Asset valuation. Synergy projections. Non-compete clauses. Gibberish. 

You drop it back onto the pile, the thud echoing slightly in the cavernous room. You lean back on the absurdly expensive ergonomic chair, staring at the ceiling. The recessed lights offer no inspiration, only a sterile glow. 

Lunch. Definitely lunch. Sushi’s a good pick. Maybe that place down the street with the fatty tuna. Your stomach rumbles in agreement.

You reach for the sleek intercom panel to summon them back, to declare an early, extended lunch break: a director’s son’s prerogative. Your finger hovers over the button, ready to pull the trigger. Suddenly, the jarring, insistent chime of an encrypted video line cuts through the lethargy. The laptop screen in your desk flickers to life. No caller ID, but the weight of the ringtone—a low, ominous pulse—tells you everything. 

Dad.

A cold knot forms in your gut, replacing the lingering hunger pangs. You haven’t seen his face, truly seen it, outside of heavily filtered corporate headshots in two years. Not since the last mandatory ‘family’ strategy summit in Singapore, where he spent three hours berating the regional VP for a 0.5% dip in market share over dessert. 

You smooth your tie, a pointless gesture, and hit ‘accept’.

His face fills the screen. Sharper than you remember. Thinner. The expensive suit hangs a little looser, the lines around his eyes and mouth deeper, harder. Like granite eroded by relentless pressure. His hair is still impeccably dark, likely expensive dye, but the eyes—the eyes are the same. Cold, assessing, devoid of the warmth you dimly recall from childhood photos and now vague memories. He sits in what looks like a private jet cabin, all cream leather and polished wood, the window behind him showing nothing but featureless blue sky and clouds beneath.

“Son.” His voice is a dry rasp, devoid of inflection. It’s not a greeting; it’s an acknowledgment of a functional unit. “You look—functional.”

“Father.” You mimic his tone, the corporate chill settling over you like a familiar, uncomfortable coat. “You look—reasonably sane.”

“To what do I owe the interruption?” 

“Lunch. My fatty tuna.”

He ignores the barb, if he even registered it. His gaze flicks to something off-screen, then back to you. “Operations report negligible progress on your end regarding the Q3 restructuring plan. Explain.” 

No small talk. No ‘how are you.’ Just the bottom line.

You suppress a sigh, leaning forward slightly, projecting an image of engagement you don’t feel. “The announcement was made this morning. Morale impact is being assessed. Departmental audits are underway per your directive. It takes time, Father. We can’t just flip a switch and disintegrate a third of the workforce.” 

Profits over employees. The unspoken mantra hangs between you, transmitted via satellite.

He waves a dismissive hand, a gesture eerily similar to your own earlier one, but imbued with genuine power. “Time is a luxury we are rapidly exhausting. Streamline. Accelerate.” His eyes narrow, pinning you to your expensive chair. From a business standpoint, you’re a subordinate—a cog in the unrelenting machine—not his own flesh and blood. “Which brings me to the primary reason for this call. My focus is shifting. Permanently. The Americas division is imploding. I am relocating to New York headquarters immediately. Indefinitely.”

The news hits like a devastating blow, though you should have expected it. Rumors had been swirling for months. Two years without face-to-face contact suddenly stretches into an uncertain, bleak horizon. 

“New York?” you manage, your voice tight.

“Effective next month,” he confirms, tone flat, indifferent. “This necessitates a restructuring here as well. I require someone on the ground in Seoul I can rely upon to execute our vision without constant oversight.” He pauses, letting the implication hang. “You are being promoted. Regional Director, East Asia Operations. Full autonomy over the Seoul hub and all satellite offices in the region. Reporting directly to me.”

Regional Director. The title lands with an earth-crushing thud. More responsibility. More expectations. More of the life you never asked for. You feel no elation, only a profound weariness. 

“Congratulations are in order, I suppose,” you say, the words ringing hollow. “Though I suspect ‘rely upon’ translates to ‘blame if things go south.’

A flicker of something—annoyance, perhaps—crosses his face. “Sentimentality is inefficient. This is an opportunity. Prove your capability beyond being a—messenger.” 

The pause before ‘messenger’ is deliberate, pointed. 

“However,” he continues, his voice regaining its steely edge, “this promotion necessitates adjustments within your immediate support structure. You require an Executive Assistant. A single point of contact. Streamlined reporting. One individual capable of handling the increased load and acting as your proxy.”

Your mind instantly conjures images: Momo’s terrifying efficiency. Kazuha’s intuitive anticipation and flexibility. Their combined expertise makes for an irreplaceable pairing that can command armies. There’s no two people better suited for the challenges ahead.

“I have Hirai Momo and Nakamura Kazuha,” you state, a defensive edge creeping in. “They function exceptionally well as a unit. Momo handles logistics, compliance, the hard edges. Kazuha manages communications, scheduling, the human element. They complement each other. Frankly, Father, they’re the only reason this building hasn’t collapsed into utter chaos. They’re both invaluable. Promoting one to Executive Assistant makes sense, but releasing the other—” 

You trail off, the corporate euphemism tasting foul. Call it for what it is: firing. “It would be counterproductive. We need both their skill sets.”

He stares at you, his expression impassive, a stone wall against your appeal. “Sentiment. Again, inefficient. Company policy for the Regional Director position mandates one primary EA. Consolidation. Cost efficiency. A single chain of command.” He leans slightly closer to the camera, his face filling the screen, the coldness in his eyes absolute. “Choose one. Promote her. The other—” 

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to. The rest is written in the cold calculus of the restructuring plan you’d announced hours ago. Released. Let go. Part of the necessary reduction.

The silence stretches, thick with the hum of the jet’s engines and the frantic pounding of your own pulse in your ears. The thought of fatty tuna is forgotten, replaced by a cumbersome weight. 

“Choose one?” you ask, the words inadequate, stupid.

“Yes.” Dad’s tone is final, conclusive. “You have 72 hours to inform me of your decision. The promotion—and the corresponding personnel adjustment—will be effective concurrently with your own ascension to Regional Director next month. Do not dither.” 

The screen goes abruptly dark, leaving you staring at your own pale, stunned reflection in the black glass. Connection severed as cleanly and ruthlessly as a guillotine blade.

The silence in the office is absolute now, oppressive. The mountain of paperwork seems taller, more insurmountable. Regional Director. One promotion. One dismissal. 

Momo. Kazuha. Their names echo in the hollow space. 

“Choose.” 

Dad’s command hangs in the air like smog. 

You rake a hand through your hair, staring sightlessly at the door.

Outside the heavy oak door, the air crackles with a different kind of silence. Momo stands rigid, her back pressed against the cool wall beside the door frame. A forgotten printout clenches so tightly in her hand that the paper crumples. Her usually impassive face is a mask of frozen tension, jaw locked, eyes wide and unseeing, fixed on the abstract painting opposite. Every word from the video call, every cold, clipped syllable from the CEO, had filtered through the imperfect seal of the door with chilling clarity. Regional Director. One EA. Choose one. The other released.

A foot away, Kazuha leans against the opposite wall, her tablet hanging limply at her side. The bright, attentive energy is gone, replaced by a stillness that feels unnatural. Her gaze is fixed on the closed door, her expression unreadable, but the faint tremor in her lower lip betrays the seismic shift happening within. The scent of the freshly brewed black coffee in the cup she still holds, now cold, mocks the icy dread settling in her stomach. 

‘Promote one. Dismiss the other.’

The unspoken ultimatum hangs between them, thick and suffocating. The corridor, usually a space of efficient movement, feels like a precipice. Neither woman looks at the other. The only sound is the frantic, silent hammering of two hearts realizing the game has now become a fight for survival.

—————

Regardless of the circumstance, Momo and Kazuha remain professional as ever. As soon as they discern the creak of the office door swing open, their postures straighten up mechanically to greet you. Smiles perfectly aligned. No sign of weakness or vulnerability. A perfect unit. “Boss.”

Despite the heaviness of your new role weighing you down, you reciprocate their warmth. “Hey.”

You can tell something feels off, but not pinpoint what is wrong exactly. Maybe it’s the space between them both, a seeming abyss right in the middle. The tinge of their voices cracking ever so slightly. It could be the uncontrollable twitch in their eyebrows, assessing the situation and your body language in real time. Perhaps it’s hunger playing games with your head.

“Early lunch as usual, boss?” asks Momo, having registered this time of day as part of the daily schedule. “You’re five minutes late than usual.”

“Yeah,” is your reply, tone fighting its hardest not to falter. “Dad called. Said I’d be regional director of the East Asian branch moving forward.”

“Congratulations.” Both women cheer and applaud in unison, but it’s a somber celebration. A triumphant moment in any other scenario, but not today.

“You’re the ones who deserve it, honestly,” you admit through a faint smile, taking a shallow breath. If you three were in a group, Momo and Kazuha would have carried everything—research, formatting, and visualization—while you made the first slide of the Powerpoint, slapped everyone’s names on and presented it through their script. “You’ve done an admirable job handling all the tasks I’ve given you. If it were up to me, you’d both be running this place.”

“Thank you boss, but we owe you our success by believing in us, sir,” replies Kazuha, gently bowing her head in appreciation.

“Agreed. If you didn’t take us, we don’t know if we would be working right now,” Momo adds, slightly looking to the side of her colleague. “You’re as important in this office as anyone else, if not more—you’ve also been handling employee scouting and training, no?”

Hearing their encouraging words almost breaks you. What should have been a warm, endearing moment feels heavier and bittersweet knowing that this inseparable pairing will be forced to break up. And you don’t have the heart to tell either of them.

You can only smile and lower your head, hiding the tears close to falling.

The pair immediately catch on, rushing toward you, handkerchiefs in hand like a magic trick. “Something wrong, boss?” They ask concurrently.

Lifting your head slightly, concealing your eyes from their view, because there’s no way you can contain your emotion with how burdened your heart is. Your throat can’t even bother to try. It rings of deflation and defeat, something unfitting for a newly appointed director. “Fine. It’s all fine, I’m just—a little overwhelmed right now.”

“Talk us through the situation, sir,” encourages Momo, her tone soft, lovely. “Rest assured, you can count on us to help you.”

Kazuha nods in agreement, her inflection equally as welcoming. “Tell us everything, sir.”

You pause. A deep, heavy sigh, thickens the air in the room like blinding fog. One thing is clear: you’re not in the right headspace, at least right now.

“How about you go and have lunch first?” you tell them, face still somewhat concealed, your voice shrinking by the word. Knowing them, they likely have seen through the mask, but are gracious not to press on the matter. “I will speak to both of you when I’m ready.”

“Of course.” Momo straightens herself, pulling back her handkerchief and making her hurried, yet efficient leave. “Please enjoy your lunch, director.”

“Do try and take care of yourself,” adds Kazuha, joining her senior inside the elevator before they disappear behind the closing panel.

—————

Effective immediately, you had all scheduled meetings and appointments canceled for the rest of the day. 

It never sat right with you. Despite your status, Dad never really saw you as his kid. Only a subordinate, an expendable asset. A messenger, as he called you. Looking at the framed photo of you as a child, carried on his shoulders, he almost feels like a completely different person. Now, he’s less of a human and more a corporate entity taking the form of a mortal shell.

Unsurprisingly, you hardly got anything done; Momo and Kazuha once again backpacked the workload, with your only meaningful contribution being a handful of signatures on the dotted line. By day’s end, you had everyone vacate the building right away except for them; not a single overtime was to be performed, and no one except security were to stay for the night. It’s a ploy to keep this matter between you three, despite your office nestled high up in the tower, away from all your employees. 

The silence in your office isn’t just quiet. It’s loaded. Like the air before a detonation. Momo sits ramrod straight in the plush guest chair, hands folded neatly on her lap, her knuckles pale. Kazuha perches on the edge of the other, one leg crossed over the other, ankle bouncing with a nervous energy she’s failing to hide. Their eyes track you as you move from the window back to your desk, a silent, expectant audience. The city lights below feel accusatory now, witnesses to the execution you’re about to perform.

You don’t sit. Leaning against the mahogany monstrosity, the edge digs into your hip. The weight of the day, of your father’s words, of the leaden secret, presses down. You can’t meet their eyes just yet. You stare at the abstract painting behind them—splashes of angry red and cold blue—searching for an answer it doesn’t hold.

"Right," you start, the word scraping out. Your voice sounds alien, strained. You’ve hardly spoken since lunch break, yet the weariness never disappeared, only worsened. "You wanted to talk. About—earlier."

Momo inclines her head. A precise, professional movement. "We sensed you were troubled, Director." 

Director. The title falls like a stone. It tastes foul. 

Kazuha nods, her usual bright smile replaced by a look of focused concern that doesn’t quite reach the watchfulness in her eyes.

Dad’s words cloud your head. Choose one. Release the other. Corporate euphemisms for sacrifice. 

You push off the desk, pacing a short, tight line. The carpet muffles your steps, but the frantic thudding in your chest feels deafening. "My father—the call. It wasn't just about the promotion." Quickly turning, you face the window again, the sprawling cityscape a blur. "There’s—” you draw out the last letter, unable to follow through. “a condition."

Silence. Thick, heavy. You can feel their attention sharpen, pricking against your skin.

"He insists," you force out, the follow through thick and clumsy, "on ‘streamlining.’ Company policy for the Regional Director role. One Executive Assistant. Only one." 

You turn, finally meeting their gazes. Momo’s expression is frozen porcelain. Kazuha’s bouncing leg has stilled. "He told me—” your throat is shriveling at the thought again. “I have to choose. One of you gets the promotion. The EA position. The other—" You can’t say it. You gesture vaguely, helplessly, towards the door, towards the elevator, towards the cold reality outside this gilded cage. "Released. As part of the restructuring."

The command hangs in the sterile air, ugly and final. The hum of the building’s HVAC is suddenly loud.

Kazuha is the first to break the paralysis. "Choose?" Her voice is higher than usual, a brittle edge peeking from it. "But—that’s absurd! Sir, we function as a unit. Momo-san’s precision, my adaptability," she gestures between them, a frantic little motion. "It’s synergistic. Removing one cripples the entire function! Surely the CEO understands that! We could—we could draft a proposal. Outline the tangible losses in efficiency. Present a cost-benefit analysis against this policy?" 

Her words tumble out, rapid-fire, a desperate bid for logic against the irrational axe of your father’s decree.

You shake your head, the movement heavy. "I tried, Kazuha." The memory of your father’s granite face, his cold dismissal, floods back. "Believe me: I fucking tried.” You parrot his words, each sentence sounding more repulsive in your mouth than the last. ‘Sentiment is inefficient.’ ‘Company policy mandates a single chain of command.’ ‘Consolidation. Cost efficiency.’” 

"He wasn’t interested in proposals. Or logic. Or—people." The last word is a whisper, laced with a venom usually reserved for quarterly tax audits. Some of his trademark coldness has bounced off you. "The decision is mine. And he wants it in 72 hours."

Momo hasn’t moved once. Her gaze is fixed on a point somewhere past your shoulder, her neutral expression a veil of unnerving calm. Only the slight, almost imperceptible tightening of her jaw betrays the brewing storm underneath. When she speaks, her tone is low, controlled, but removed of its usual smoothness. "We—we understand the position this puts you in, Director."

Kazuha whips her attention towards Momo, disbelief clashing with dawning comprehension on her face. "Momo-san?"

Momo shifts her face, meeting Kazuha’s, then yours. There’s no warmth there, only a chilling, pragmatic acceptance. "We overheard, Director." The admission is flat, matter-of-fact. "The door—it didn’t seal perfectly. We heard everything."

Breath leaves your lungs in a rush. Of course they did. The uncomfortable energy, the slight cracks in their professionalism earlier—it was more than concern for you. It was the shockwave hitting them directly. They’ve been sitting here, carrying this knowledge, this burden, while you floundered. Humiliation burns, hot and sharp, mixing with newly crushing guilt. 

You feel exposed. Stripped bare.

Kazuha flushes, looking down at her hands clenched in her lap. "We didn’t mean to eavesdrop," she murmurs, the defiance gone, replaced by something vulnerable. "We were waiting, and then—we heard."

Momo continues, regaining a fraction of steel, though it’s aimed inward now. "The CEO’s directive is clear. The policy is—immovable. Arguing further is—" she pauses, searching for the corporate synonym for futile. "counterproductive. We accept the parameters." She lifts her chin slightly. "Whichever decision you make, Director, we will respect it. We understand the necessity."

Necessity. The word feels hollow. Like your father’s soul.

Kazuha takes a shaky breath, lifting her head. Her eyes are bright, but not with tears. With a fierce, sudden determination that surprises you. "Respect it, yes," she echoes, her voice firmer now. "But—" A flicker of her old, spirited spark ignites. She glances sideways at Momo, a look that’s part challenge, part grim acknowledgement. "We won't make it easy for you. Or for each other." Meeting your eyes squarely, she continues. "You said choose the best, Director? Well, you’re about to see exactly what ‘best’ looks like. From both of us." A tight, almost predatory smile touches her lips. "Consider the next 72 hours an extended performance review. We will outperform. We will exceed. We will leave absolutely no doubt in your mind about who deserves that position."

Momo doesn’t smile. But a slow, deliberate blink, a subtle straightening of her spine, speaks volumes. The subdued intensity radiating from her sharpens, focusing like a laser. She gives a single, curt nod. "Agreed. The parameters are set. The outcome will be determined by merit. Demonstrated merit." 

Her stare locks onto yours, intensity unwavering. "We will ensure you have all the data you require to make your difficult decision."

A strange surge of pride cuts through the morass of guilt and dread. Resilient. Professional. Even when facing the abyss, they revert to their core competencies. Momo’s ruthless pragmatism. Kazuha’s fierce, adaptive drive. They’re not collapsing; they’re gearing up for war. A war where you hold the singular vote. The thought is terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure. The air crackles with the unspoken challenge, the desperate energy, the sheer, terrifying resolve emanating from both women.

The heaviness of the day, the crushing weight of your father’s ultimatum—none of it has vanished. It’s still there, a dull anchor in your gut. But layered over it now is this new, electric tension. The quiet office feels like a calm battlefield moments before the charge forward.

"You're both—" You trail off, shaking your head. A faint, incredulous smile touches your lips despite everything. "Unbelievable." It holds exhaustion, awe, and a dawning sense of being utterly outmaneuvered. There are countless ways to describe Momo and Kazuha, but this one word aptly describes them quite perfectly. 

"Fine. Understood. The clock starts now." You glance at the sleek, minimalist clock on your desk. 6:47 PM. "Consider yourselves officially—under review."

The silence returns, but it feels different now. Not teeming with unease, but taut with anticipation. 

Momo stands first, smooth and precise as always. "Then we should not waste time, Director. We have preparations to make." Her tone is clipped, systematic. Already shifting into mission mode.

Kazuha rises too, her earlier stillness replaced by a coiled energy. "Absolutely. Early start tomorrow, Director? Critical path analysis for the Henderson merger needs your eyes. Bright and early." Her smile is back, sharp and challenging.

You wave a hand, fatigue crashing down on you again, but in a different way. The emotional whiplash is brutal. "Go. Both of you. Get out of here. I'll see you in the morning." 

Bright and early. The phrase feels like a threat.

They move towards the door, a united front for a fleeting second. Momo pauses, her hand on the polished handle. She doesn't look back. "Try to get some rest, Director. You will need it." 

The words aren't gentle; they're a warning.

Kazuha flashes one last, brilliant, utterly terrifying smile over her shoulder. "Sweet dreams, boss. Dream of—efficiency charts." 

Then they're gone, the heavy oak door clicking shut with a sound that echoes like a pistol in the sudden, vast silence.

You sink into your obscenely expensive chair, the leather sighing. The mountain of untouched paperwork taunts you. The Henderson file glares, an insurmountable predicament in its own right. Outside, Seoul’s indifferent lights pulse. Once again, you recall the day’s agendas. Regional Director. One promotion. One dismissal. 

Dad’s voice rings in your head, haunting you persistently like a ghost. ‘Choose.’

But the faces swimming in your mind aren’t faceless employees on a restructuring list anymore. They’re Momo’s icy, determined gaze. Kazuha’s fierce, challenging smile. The quiet, terrifying promise in their professional acceptance.

You have less than three days left. And you have absolutely no idea what hell those two incredibly capable, fiercely competitive women are about to unleash in their fight for survival. You rake your hands over your face. Lunch is a forgotten luxury. Rest is an afterthought.

The game, as Kazuha so pointedly implied, has radically, irrevocably changed.

—————

The executive elevator doors slide open at barely past seven in the morning. Bright and early. Kazuha’s words echo as a threat manifested into existence. Floor 18 buzzes with an unnatural vigor. You step out the sterile box, bracing yourself.

They’re already there. Waiting.

Momo stands ramrod straight beside your office door, tablet held like a shield against her crisp white blouse. Her posture screams military precision, but you notice the subtle differences: hair pulled tighter, makeup sharper, the faintest hint of expensive perfume cutting through the antiseptic office smell. Her gaze snaps to you—analytical, assessing—before she offers a curt, perfect bow. “Director. Your schedule has been optimized and pre-loaded. The Henderson critical path analysis is prioritized.”

Before you can respond, Kazuha materializes from the small adjacent kitchenette, holding two steaming mugs. Her usual vibrant energy feels amplified, channeled into a stream of hyper-efficiency. She’s swapped her typical smart dress for a sharply tailored pantsuit, her smile brighter, more focused. “Morning, boss! Double espresso, freshly brewed. And I took the liberty of cross-referencing the merger timelines with Legal’s redlines—found three potential conflict points you’ll want to flag.” 

She hands you the coffee, her fingers brushing yours for a fraction longer than necessary. The contact sends a jolt through you, instantly at odds with the caffeine. Her eyes hold a challenge, a silent ‘Watch this.’

The pair moves in sync, a terrifyingly efficient ballet. Momo opens your office door right as you reach for it. Kazuha deposits a meticulously organized folder on your desk: tabs color-coded, summaries bullet-pointed. Yesterday’s heap of neglected paperwork is gone, replaced by this single, streamlined dossier. The Henderson file sits on top, with a post-it note glued on etched in Momo’s precise handwriting, something about Sector 4.2b.

“We’ve pre-screened all non-urgent communications,” states Momo, her voice clipped. “Only three items require your direct attention before 10 AM. Kazuha has drafted preliminary responses for your approval.”

“And I’ve prepped a stakeholder analysis for the restructuring impact assessment,” Kazuha adds, leaning slightly against your desk. Her posture is confident, almost possessive of the space. “Prioritized by department sensitivity and potential resistance.” She flashes another brilliant smile. “We aim to eliminate doubt, Director.”

They aren’t just working; they’re waging war.

You take a scalding sip of espresso, the bitterness grounding you. The plan you’d hatched in the sleepless void of the night—unethical, desperate, stupid—suddenly feels like the only move left.

“Kazuha,” you say, your voice thankfully steady. You gesture towards the folder. “This cross-referencing with Legal. I need it contextualized against the operational realities on the ground. Floor 12—Procurement. Go down, talk to Manager Miyawaki. Get her raw, unfiltered take on the vendor transition clauses. Don’t come back without concrete pain points.”

Kazuha’s gleam doesn’t falter, but her eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. Floor 12 was notoriously slow, tangled in bureaucracy. Sending her there was busywork, a deliberate delay. “Manager Miyawaki?” she repeats, light but probing. “Her insights are usually retrospective, Director. Wouldn’t real-time data from Logistics on Floor 9 be more actionable?”

“Her perspective on vendor relationships is crucial,” is your counter, rhythmically tapping the folder. “We need the ground truth before Legal airlocks us into something unworkable. Consider it primary source verification. Now.” The command is firmer than intended.

A beat of silence. Momo watches Kazuha, her expression now unreadable. Kazuha’s gaze flicks between you and the folder, her spark momentarily replaced by calculation. Then, the brilliant smile snaps back into place, sharper than before. “Ground truth. Understood, Director. I’ll extract it.” 

She grabs her tablet, spins on her heel, and strides towards the elevator, her posture brimming with determined energy. The doors swallow her whole.

The sudden silence in the wake of her departure feels immense. Momo remains statuesque beside your desk, her attention entirely aimed at you. The absence of Kazuha’s vibrant presence makes Momo’s intensity feel denser, more—concentrated.

“Sir?” Momo prompts, “Shall I brief you on the flagged schedule items?”

“Not yet.” You walk around your desk, not sitting, leaning against it instead, mirroring Kazuha’s earlier pose minus her ease. The mahogany surface feels cold through your shirt. “Close the door, Momo.”

A fractional hesitation. Her dark eyes meet yours, searching. Then, a single, precise nod. She moves silently, the heavy oak door clicking shut with absolute certainty. The HVAC’s hum grows louder in the enclosed space. She returns to stand before you, hands clasped loosely in front of her, the perfect picture of polished readiness. But the atmosphere has shifted. The corporate armor feels thinner.

“Sit,” you direct, gesturing your hand to the guest chair.

She obeys, sitting with her usual ramrod posture, her back not touching the chair. Her stare is level, expectant, but the undercurrent is different now. Watchful. Aware.

You take another sip of Kazuha’s coffee, stalling. The plan feels flimsier by the second. “Given the—unique circumstances,” you begin, the words struggling to hold gravity, “and the weight of the decision ahead, I need more than just performance metrics, Momo. I need to understand potential. Fit. For the EA role specifically,” You force yourself to hold her gaze. “Consider this a—personal interview. Supplementing the professional review.”

Momo’s expression doesn’t flicker. “Understood, Director. What would you like to know?” Her inflection is neutral, but there’s a new layer beneath it: a quiet alertness, like a hunter sensing a shift in the wind.

You start with safe territory, the script rehearsed in your insomniac haze. “Your long-term vision for the EA position. How would you handle the increased autonomy? Conflict resolution strategies when reporting directly to—” You almost say ‘my father’, but stop yourself. “—to remote, high-pressure leadership.”

Her answers are flawless. Concise, strategic, demonstrating deep understanding of the role’s demands and the company’s brutal politics. She speaks of buffer zones, information filtration, anticipatory action. It’s impressive, coldly efficient, and utterly predictable. Exactly what the company—what your father—would want. Yet, it feels sterile. Incomplete.

She watches you intently, waiting for the next question. Her blouse, you finally catch on, is cut slightly lower than usual. A single button undone at the top, revealing the barest hint of collarbone. The fabric strains subtly across her chest with each breath. It’s demanding that you take notice.

“And what about you, Director?” Momo suddenly asks, her voice dropping a fraction, losing its boardroom edge. It’s softer, yet somehow more dangerous. She leans forward infinitesimally in the chair. “What do you need? From your Executive Assistant?” Her glare is unwavering, intense. “Beyond the spreadsheets and the schedules. Beyond the—policy.”

The question throws you off. It’s an inversion. Your throat feels tight. The carefully constructed script in your head crumbles. 

“I—need reliability,” you manage, the corporate answer reflexively bubbling. “Foresight. Discretion.”

Momo’s lips curve ever so slightly. Not a smile. A ghost of something knowing. “Discretion,” she repeats, the word a velvet murmur. “Yes. That’s paramount.” Her eyes drift down, then back up to yours, holding you with unnerving directness. “But reliability can be learned. Foresight honed. Discretion,” she pauses, letting the word hang. “—is inherent. Or it isn’t.” She tilts her head, a fraction. “What do you see in me, Director? That makes you consider me for such an intimate responsibility?”

Intimate. The word lands like a sharp uppercut in the otherwise quiet office. Your pulse hammers. The air conditioning whirs, suddenly ineffective against the heat flooding your face. Her gaze is relentless, slowly stripping away the professional veneer. She knows. She must learn why Kazuha was sent away. This isn’t about the job anymore. This is the game laid bare.

“I see.” You falter, the words sliding off with nothing to lean on. Your carefully constructed detachment shatters. “Competence. Strength. Control.” The last word comes out hoarse.

“Control,” Momo echoes softly, teetering on seduction. She uncrosses her legs, then recrosses them slowly, the whisper of nylon loud in the unnerving quiet. Her eyes never depart yours. “Control is essential. Especially when managing—unpredictable variables.” A deliberate pause, to let the words simmer. “Like ambition. Or—desire.”

The heat intensifies, pooling low in your stomach. Your carefully maintained distance feels like a ruse. She’s dismantling it with terrifying precision. You’re rendered frozen, pinned by her and the terrifying implication of her words.

Then, she moves.

Not abruptly, but with deliberate, unhurried grace. She rises from the chair, smooth as silk. Two steps bring her directly in front of you, where you lean against the desk. The subtle scent of her perfume—expensive, floral, with an underlying edge of spice—envelops you. Up close, the strain of her blouse across her chest is undeniable. The open button reveals a thin necklace resting against smooth skin.

“You look tense, Director,” she murmurs, a low vibration that resonates in your bones. Her eyes drop pointedly to your hands, clenched white-knuckled on the desk’s edge. “The burden of choice is heavy.”

Before you can formulate a response, her hand lifts. Not towards your shoulder, not for a reassuring pat. Her fingertips brush against the back of your clenched hand on the desk. The touch is feather-light, yet electric. It jolts through your nerves.

“Perhaps,” she continues, dropping even lower, becoming almost hypnotic, “you’re overcomplicating it.” Her other hand rises, hovering near your waist. Her eyes lock onto yours, dark pools reflecting office lights and something else entirely—a challenge, an invitation, a terrifying promise. “Sometimes, the most efficient solution—” she stops, deliberately twirling a loop of her own hair. “—is to follow instinct. To let go of unnecessary control.”

Her hovering hand descends, slow and deliberate. Not to your arm nor to your shoulder. Her palm rests flat, possessively, high on your thigh, just below the hip. The heat of her touch sears through your trousers. Her thumb moves in a slow, infinitesimal circle. Your breath hitches, trapped in your throat. All thought of corporate policy, of your father, of the impossible choice, evaporates in the white-hot shock of her touch and the seductive danger in her eyes. 

She leans in fractionally, her lips perilously close to your ear. Her breath ghosts warm against your skin. “What does your instinct tell you right now?”

Right there, the dam breaks. Carefully constructed walls of professionalism, guilt, and fear—obliterated by a surge of raw, reckless desire. The scent of her, the heat of her hand, the blatant challenge in her eyes. It’s overwhelming.

The interview is over. In your heart, you know the result. You’re failing.

With a choked sound that’s half groan, half surrender, you move. One hand snaps up, tangling in the sleek dark hair at the nape of her neck. The other clutches her waist, pulling her hard against you. No finesse, only ravenous hunger. 

Your mouth crashes down onto hers.

It’s not a kiss; it’s a claiming. Hard, demanding, fueled by weeks of bubbling tension, days of unrelenting dread, and the terrifying power she’s just wielded over you. Momo doesn’t resist. She meets you. Her lips part instantly, yielding, and then fighting back with equal ferocity. Her hand on your thigh slides higher, fingers digging in possessively. A muffled sound escapes her—not protest, but fierce satisfaction. Her other hand fists in the fabric of your shirt at your back, drawing you impossibly closer.

The controlled precision she embodies shatters in the kiss. It’s all heat and lust and a fierce, competitive edge that mirrors the professional battle raging outside this room. Her body pressed flush against yours is a revelation: strong, relenting, demanding. The softness of her breasts against your chest, the frantic beat of her heart echoing yours, the way her hips tilt instinctively into yours—

The Henderson file is crushed between you. The sleek clock on the desk blinks 7:41 AM. Kazuha is six floors down. Your father’s 72-hour deadline ticks relentlessly. Nothing registers. There’s only the searing warmth of Momo’s mouth, the pressure of her body, and the exhilarating plunge into the abyss you’ve both taken. Control disintegrates. Instinct reigns supreme. 

It feels awfully like losing. Or maybe—just maybe—like the only victory possible in this gilded cage.

The kiss isn't an end. It's a detonation. A seismic shift in the carefully fabricated lines of your professional relationship. Momo doesn't melt; she unravels. The moment your mouth claims hers, the calculated control that defines her shatters like safety glass. 

A sharp, high gasp escapes her, swallowed instantly by your mouth. Her hands, precise instruments of corporate warfare moments ago, become frantic things: one fisting in the hair at your nape with nigh-painful intensity, the other clawing at the fabric of your shirt, dragging you impossibly closer—as if trying to merge your bodies through sheer force.

Her lips are softer than you imagined, yielding then fighting back with a ferocity that matches her professional drive. It’s a battle, a desperate, messy clash of passion. Shared, ragged breaths fog the cool office air. The Henderson file crunches, forgotten beneath your combined weight against the desk. 

You break for air, your foreheads pressed together, breathing frantically like marathon finishers. When you force your eyes open, hers are wide, dark, dilated. The icy pragmatist is gone. In her place is something raw, exposed, needy. A flush paints her cheeks and spills down her neck, disappearing beneath the collar of her scandalously unbuttoned blouse. Her chest heaves against yours.

"Director," she sighs, the title both a plea and a blasphemy. Her voice is wrecked, thick with something you’ve never heard from Hirai Momo: pure, unadulterated want.

The corporate cage, your father’s ultimatum, the ticking clock–they evaporate in the white-hot furnace of this moment. There’s only Momo, falling apart before you, and a desperate need to unravel her completely.

Your hands, still tangled in her hair, slide down. One palms the curve of her jaw, thumb tracing the frantic pulse beating in her throat. The other drifts lower, skimming the column of her neck, brushing the smooth skin exposed by that single undone button. Her breath hitches; her eyelids flutter.

"Too many layers, Momo," you murmur, your own inflection rough, alien. The corporate veneer sounds putrid in your mouth. You’re operating on pure instinct now. Your fingers find the next button of her now wrinkled white blouse. "This—this isn't efficient."

Her eyes lock onto yours, dark and fathomless. There’s no protest, no coy deflection. Only a silent, breathless fervor. 

Releasing your shirt, her hand covers yours, not impeding, but guiding you. Together, you pop the buttons open. One after another. Each tiny snick freeing itself sounds deafening in the heavy silence. The fabric parts, revealing a tantalizing sliver of smooth, pale skin, the swell of her tits constrained by flattering, expensive lace.

Her breathing grows shallower, faster. Her fingers tighten over yours on the last button, right above the waistband of her skirt. You pause, your thumb brushing the warm skin just above the lace. 

"Momo?" Her name hangs in the air, loaded. It’s seeking permission. Acknowledgment. A final check before the plunge.

The answer is a low whimper, almost lost in the thrum of the climate control. Dipping her head forward, her temple pressing harder against yours. Her hand slides away from yours, falling limply to her side. 

It’s surrender. Explicit. Utter.

"Please." Her voice cracks, ragged and torn from her throat.

That single word unglues you. Your fingers finish the job, freeing the last button, promptly sliding the blouse off her shoulders. It catches momentarily on her elbows before she shrugs, a small, helpless motion, letting it slither down her arms to pool on the expensive carpet at her feet. 

Momo stands before you now in her skirt, heels, and the demure lace bra that suddenly seems impossibly provocative against her exposed skin. Her shoulders are tense, her arms held slightly away from her body, as if unsure what to do with them. The flush has deepened, spreading across her chest. She’s breathtaking. Powerful efficiency stripped bare to trembling vulnerability.

"Look at you," you breathe, thick with awe and a possessiveness that shocks you. Your hands settle on her waist, thumbs stroking the smooth skin just above the waistband of her skirt. She shivers violently under your touch. "All that control—gone."

She doesn't deny it. Her eyes squeeze shut for a second, feeling a tremor running through her. When she opens them, the defiance is gone, superseded by a treacherous admission. "I—I didn't know—" she stammers, small and frail. "I didn't know it could feel like this. Just—touching. Just you—looking."

Her genuine honesty disarms you further. This isn't a calculated act of seduction anymore. This is Momo, fully stripped of her armor, exposed and seeking. The power dynamic has flipped. You’re both adrift in uncharted territory.

Naturally, your gaze drops to her breasts. Beautifully shaped, only constrained by lace cups. The fabric strains slightly with her quick breaths, the peaks visibly hardened beneath. Your thumbs move upwards, tracing the lower curves, feeling the heat radiating from her skin. She gasps, her back arching slightly, pushing her chest instinctively towards your hands.

"Beautiful," you murmur, the word escaping without thought, as you take lease of her divine figure. "Fit. Perfect." 

Your praise seems to affect her more than your touch. A soft moan escapes her lips, her head lolling back slightly, exposing the long line of her throat. The submissive posture, so peculiar on her, is devastatingly erotic.

Your hands slide up, cupping the full weight of her tits through the bra. They fill your palms perfectly, warm and heavy. Squeezing gently, experimentally. She cries out a sharp, choked sound. Her hands fly up, not to push you away, but to clutch at your forearms, her nails digging in slightly through your sleeves.

"Director—please—" 

"Please what, Momo?" You lean in, brushing the shell of her ear, feeling her quiver against you. "Use your words. Tell me what you need." 

It’s a command, gentle but firm, echoing her own earlier demand for instinct.

She whimpers, her hips making a small, involuntary rocking motion against nothing. "The bra. Please. Take it off. I want—I want you to see. To touch me—properly."

The desperation—the unfiltered need—sets off a signal in your head. Never in your life you think her icy demure would dissolve like mush in your grasp. 

Your fingers find the clasp at the back, a simple hook-and-eye. With a practiced flick you didn't know you possessed, it releases. The bra loosens. Sliding the straps down her arms slowly, deliberately, letting the lace peel away from her skin, inch by agonizing inch, before it joins the blouse on the floor.

Momo stands before you, bare from the waist up. The flush spreads down her chest. She makes no move to cover herself. Her eyes are locked on yours, wide and dark, completely in surrender.

"God, Momo—" A deep, held breath escapes your lungs. Your hands rise, hovering for a heartbeat before settling on her warm, silken skin. Your thumbs sweep over her stiff nubs, eliciting another sharp cry from her. "So perfect. Made for this." 

You lean down, your mouth replacing your digit on one taut nipple. The sensation is electric. 

She cries out, a sound ripped from deep within her, her body bowing against you. Her hands fist in your hair, holding you to her, not pushing away. You suckle gently, then with increasing pressure, swirling your tongue around the sensitive tit. Her hips grind against your thigh, seeking friction, her breath coming in wanton, broken gasps. 

You lavish attention on one breast, then the other, alternating between sucking and licking, making her jerk and whine. Her skin feels like hot velvet under your lips and tongue. The taste is intoxicating.

"Yes—oh God—yes—like that—please—more—so good—” 

She’s babbling now, soft, broken phrases lost between moans. Her usual eloquence shattered, replaced by the primal language of need. Tugging her fingers erratically at your belt buckle, her movements strangely uncoordinated. "Need you—need to feel you—all of you—"

Her urgency ignites yours. Straightening yourself, you pull her into another searing kiss, swallowing her whimpers. Regretfully, your hands leave her breasts, sliding down her sides, over the curve of her hips, gripping the hem of her tailored skirt. Hiking it up, bunching the fabric around her waist, exposing her long, toned legs encased in sheer black stockings fastened to a garter belt, and simple matching lace panties, already damp, clinging to her.

A choked groan escapes you. Your hand slides down, palming the heat radiating through the thin lace. She’s alarmingly soaked. Pressing your fingers firmly against her core, she cries out into your mouth, her legs buckling. Only your grip on her hip and the edge of the desk keep her upright. You rub her sensitive entrance through the lace, feeling the aching wetness.

"Please," she gasps, tearing her mouth from yours, her head thrown back. "I need—inside—now."

Her demand shatters the last of your restraint. You fumble with your own belt, button, and zipper, fingers suddenly going clumsy. Your own need is a pounding drumbeat in your veins, a painful throb demanding release. You shove your trousers and boxers down just enough to free your aching cock, thick and straining.

Gripping her hips, you turn her slightly, pressing her back against the solid mahogany desk. Henderson’s merger vulnerabilities scatter to the floor, completely disregarded. You hook your fingers into the sides of her damp panties. 

"Lift," you command, your voice rough.

Momo obeys instantly, raising one leg, then the other, letting you drag the lace down her thighs, over her stockings, eventually falling around her ankles. She kicks them off impatiently. Her hands scramble behind her, glued against the desk surface. Her eyes fixate on your face, glazed with lust as she spreads her legs wide, offering herself. 

Her core glistens, slick and swollen, inviting. The sight of her—bare, flushed, wanton—against the cold corporate backdrop of your desk, is the most pornographic thing you’ve ever seen. 

Stepping between her spread thighs, you brush your cockhead against her soaked entrance. She gasps, jerking her hips forward mechanically, trying to impale herself.

"Look at me," you growl, holding her hips steady. Her darkened eyes snap to yours, wide and desperate. "Tell me you want it."

"I want it," she gasps without hesitation, spurred by wanton need. "Please—I need you inside me—now—"

The vulgarity coming from Hirai Momo herself is the final detonator. 

With a groan that’s part relief, part triumph, you grip your cock, guide it to her slick core, and push forward in one smooth, relentless thrust.

She screams.

It’s not a cry of pain, but of pure, overwhelming ecstasy. Her head slams back against the edge of your desk monitor, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Her inner walls clamp down on you instantly, impossibly tight, hot, and silken. The feeling is so intense, so perfect, your vision whites out for a second. You freeze, buried to the hilt, savoring the exquisite pressure and primeval connection.

"Oh fuck—Momo—" you gasp, leaning over her, bracing your hands on the desk on both sides of her hips. "So fucking tight—so perfect—perfect for me—"

She’s panting, her eyes squeezed shut, her mouth open in a quiet scream. Tears leak from the corners of her eyes, tracking through her perfectly applied makeup. Her hips rock minutely, trying to take you deeper. 

"Move—" she begs, her voice a shattered whisper. "Please—move—please fuck me—"

You draw your cock back slowly, savoring the drag, the way her body clings to you, trying to keep you buried. Then you thrust forward again, hard. She cries out, a high, keening sound that bounces off the aseptic walls. Dictating a punishing pace from the start, there’s no gentle build-up, only the desperate need to claim, to possess, to lose yourself in the heat and friction of her cunt. 

The desk creaks ominously under the force of your thrusts. Papers cascade to the floor. As far as you’re concerned, the office is on break.

The sounds are obscene: the wet slap of flesh meeting flesh, her ragged cries, your own guttural groans, the rhythmic creak of the protesting wood. It forms a chaotic symphony that’s music to your ears. You don’t care. Let security hear. Let the whole fucking building know. Right now, there’s only this. Only Momo, spread open beneath you, taking everything you give, her professional facade shattered by primal need.

"You feel incredible," you grunt, pounding into her relentlessly, watching her breasts bounce in hypnotic waves. "So fucking tight—taking me so well—such a perfect body, fuck—" Your praise spills out, fervent and unchained, your loins set ablaze by the sight of her submission, the feel of her clench on you. "Made for this—made for my cock—"

Momo whimpers, her hands clawing at your shirt, tearing buttons in desperation. Her legs wrap around your hips, pulling you deeper with each thrust. Thrashing her head from side to side on the desk’s surface, her hair loosens from its tight knot, spilling around her in a dark halo. "Don't stop—fuck me—use me!"

Her words, her utter abandon, fuel your frenzy. You fuck her relentlessly, each thrust deeper and harder, driven by a hunger that borders on excess. Leaning down, you capture a taut nipple in your mouth again, sucking hard as you hammer into her. She screams, her body bowing off the desk, her pussy walls spasming on your cock. 

Releasing her breast, your mouth finds hers again in a messy kiss. You taste blood; hers or yours, you don’t know, nor do you care.

One hand grips her hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh, holding her steady against your assault. The other slides down, finding the slick, swollen nub above where you’re joined. You rub her clit in tight, fast circles. Her reaction is instantaneous, explosive.

"Oh God—fuck—fuck yes—that’s it—right there!” she shrieks, her voice raw, breaking. “You’ll make me—oh fuck—I’m gonna—”

You feel a tectonic shift building beneath you. Her breathing fractures into sharp, whistling gasps that fog the cold office air, and her fingernails carve deeply into your shoulders as her back arches off the mahogany, suspending her body in a trembling bridge between your hips and the desk. A high-pitched whine escapes her throat, climbing in pitch as her thighs wrap harshly around your waist, her slick walls tensing up in incremental waves that pull you deeper with each contraction. The relentless friction coiling her body tighter, tighter, until she’s trembling on the knife-edge of surrender, every nerve alight and begging for release.

Then, in a moment of weakness, she crumbles.

“I’m cumming!”

A guttural scream rips from her lungs, bouncing off the sterile walls. Her eyes roll back, whites stark against smudged mascara. Her cunt convulses around you—not merely a clamp, but a vise of pulsating, silken heat, rhythmic spasms, milking your shaft with such violent intensity that steals your breath. Her body shudders beneath yours, rushing a torrential wave of slick that drenches your cock, your thighs, the desk—everything. All signed in your name.

The sight, the feel of her coming apart on your cock, the raw, animalistic sounds she makes—it’s your undoing. The coil of pleasure in your own gut snaps.

With a groan that feels ripped directly from your soul, you bury yourself to the hilt one final time and let go. Heat floods her depths, pulsing in sync with the beating of your heart. Collapsing forward over her, bracing your weight on your forearms on the desk, your temple pressed against her sweat-slicked shoulder, gasping for air. Your hips jerk involuntarily with the last few spurts, emptying yourself deep inside her trembling body.

“Yes—all of it—give me all of it—” she whines, breathing against your skin, holding you in a tight embrace as her cunt drains you of every drop. “So warm—”

The silence that follows is thick, broken only by the ragged symphony of your breathing again. The air reeks of sex, sweat, and expensive perfume. Momo lies beneath you, her chest heaving, her eyes slammed shut, tear tracks cutting through the ruin of her makeup. Legs still hooked loosely around your hips, her pussy giving faint, involuntary flutters around your softening cock.

Slowly, carefully, you pull out. A soft whimper escapes her at the loss. You straighten up, looking down at the wreckage of the once formidable Momo: bare-breasted, skirt rucked up around her waist, hair frazzled, skin flushed and glistening with sweat, your cum glinting between her thighs, pooling on the polished mahogany of your desk. It’s a tableau of utter debauchery against the backdrop of power—your father’s cold portrait seeming to watch from the wall.

She opens her eyes. Dazed, unfocused, but they find yours. There’s no immediate shame nor regret. Just a deep, satiated exhaustion, and something else: a profound vulnerability that makes your chest tighten. Slowly, she unwinds her legs from your waist, letting them fall to the floor limp. She makes a feeble attempt to pull her skirt down, but her hands tremble too much, still reeling in the aftermath of her orgasm.

Reaching down, you gently tug the fabric back into place over her hips. A tender gesture after all the promiscuity. You retrieve her discarded clothes off the floor, holding them out, not offering to help her redress, merely presenting them. Momo stares at them for a prolonged moment, then shakily, pushes herself up to sit on the edge of the desk. Averting her gaze as she takes the bra, fumbling to clasp it behind her back. Her movements are clumsy, devoid of their usual precision. The blouse comes next. She buttons it slowly, meticulously, starting from the top, her fingers trembling on each pearl button. The armor is being reassembled, piece by fragile piece.

Silence lingers, thick and awkward now, the heat of passion rapidly cooling into the chill of reality. Quickly you pull up your own trousers, suddenly feeling exposed and strangely guilty. The enormity of your actions—exploiting the power dynamic, crossing an irrevocable line, throwing all caution to the wind—sets in. You’ve complicated an impossible choice beyond measure. 

You lean back against the desk beside her, avoiding contact, staring out at the indifferent cityscape.

Momo completes the last button. She smooths the front of her blouse, a futile attempt at erasing the wrinkles. She runs trembling fingers through her ruined hair, trying to tame it. She won’t look at you. The quiet void is suffocating.

"The Henderson—critical path analysis—" She finally speaks, her voice a hoarse murmur, devoid of its usual authority. Clearing her throat, the crack in her inflection painfully loud, borderline grating. It’s the sound of uncertainty. "Kazuha—she will expect—my notes—" 

The sentence trails off. She’s trying to re-enter the corporate line, but the words ring hollow.

“I know,” you finish, still unable to face her. Thinking straight seems impossible after what has transpired. “I trust that you will cooperate on the matter. Check up on Kazuha to see how she’s doing.”

“Of course, Director,” is her reply, slowly picking up the strewn papers off the floor. Every click of her heels feels like a piercing arrow to your heart, capped off by the echoed crash of the door behind, signaling Momo’s departure, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

—————

The sterile chill of the office feels especially brittle after Momo’s exit, the air still thick with the ghosts of sweat, sex, and her expensive, spicy perfume. You stare at the abstract painting, the angry reds and cold blues now looking like mocking witnesses. The Henderson file lies scattered on the floor, a casualty of your reckless abandon. 

You methodically gather the papers, the mundane task a desperate attempt to reassemble your own shattered composure. Your fingers brush a damp spot on the mahogany desk, and you flinch, hastily wiping it with your sleeve.

Evidence. The word echoes, sharp and accusatory.

The sleek clock reads 9:45 AM. Kazuha is still down on Floor 12, tangled in Manager Miyawaki’s bureaucratic web. Momo—Momo is out there, reassembling her armor. The memory of her bare skin, her shattered control, the taste of her surrender, floods back with paralyzing intensity. Guilt, sharp and corrosive, wars with the lingering, illicit thrill. You’ve crossed a line that can’t be uncrossed, weaponized desire in a game already rigged with cruelty. While Kazuha—brilliant, competitive Kazuha—is still playing by the rules she thinks exist.

Lunchtime approaches, a smaller, inconsequential ticking clock within the larger 72-hour countdown. You need space. You need control—or at least the illusion of it. The plan hatched in the desperate quiet after Momo left solidifies: a way to test Kazuha, to observe her away from Momo’s shadow, and yes, a way to pull her into the private orbit Momo had violently occupied.

A sharp rap on the door precedes Kazuha’s entrance. She strides in, tablet held aloft in her grasp like a trophy, her tailored pantsuit pristine, her smile bright and focused, though her eyes hold a flicker of something harder beneath the surface. Manager Miyawaki’s insights, it seems, were extracted as promised.

"Director! Pain points cataloged and cross-referenced with Logistics data. Sakura-san’s concerns were—” she pauses, slightly laughing in remembrance, a break in character, “—retrospective, as predicted, but I correlated them with real-time shipment logs. Three actionable bottlenecks identified." 

Kazuha’s voice is crisp, efficient, radiating competence. She deposits a neatly summarized report on your now-clear desk, right where the Henderson file had been crushed. Her gaze seemingly lingers for a fraction on the polished wood; you can’t really tell.

"Excellent, Kazuha," you manage, your voice thankfully steady. You gesture vaguely towards the report. "Precisely the ground truth we needed." The phrase feels like coal in your mouth. "Just in time for lunch."

Momo then appears silently in the doorway Kazuha left open. Her blouse is impeccably rebuttoned, her hair re-secured in its tight knot, her makeup flawlessly reapplied. Only the faintest trace of redness around her eyes, easily played off as fatigue, betrays the morning’s cataclysm. Her posture is ramrod straight, her expression the familiar mask of neutral professionalism. Yet, the air crackles when she steps inside. An invisible tension wire strung taut between the three of you. 

Her eyes meet yours for a fleeting millisecond—a dark, unreadable flash—before shifting to Kazuha.

"Director," Momo states, her voice smooth, devoid of any telltale rasp. "Your usual reservation at Sora is confirmed for 12:00 PM. Shall I have your documents prepared for the 2 PM call with Frankfurt?" Her efficiency is terrifying, a seamless return to form that feels almost inhuman.

This is your moment. The pivot. 

"Actually, Momo," you say, keeping your tone casual, dismissive even. "Take your break. Full hour. You’ve earned it after—everything this morning." 

You wave a hand vaguely, encompassing the Henderson chaos she helped clean, the emotional fallout she endured. "Go. Relax. Get some air."

Momo’s glare sharpens, laser-focused on you. A beat of silence hangs, heavy with unspoken questions. She’s still a cut above everyone else when it comes to discernment. This kind gesture raises some huge red flags. Her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "Sir, the Frankfurt prep—"

"Can wait," you interrupt, firmer now. "Consider it an order. A long lunch. My treat." You force a smile that feels flimsy. "You look like you could use it."

Her dark eyes hold yours, a silent battle waged in the space between breaths. She sees the dismissal for what it is: exclusion. But the professional in her, the survivor, wins. She gives a single, precise nod. "Understood, Director. Thank you." 

She turns on her heel, her movements economical, and walks out, closing the door behind her with a soft, definitive click.

The silence she leaves is immediate, but charged. You and Kazuha stand frozen for a moment, listening. The faint click of Momo’s heels recedes down the corridor towards the elevators. You count the seconds in your head, straining your ears. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. No lingering presence, no telltale shuffle beyond the heavy oak.

"Check," you murmur, directing your eye at the door.

Kazuha doesn’t hesitate. With a fluid, silent movement, she’s at the door. She doesn’t open it. Instead, she presses her ear against the polished wood, closing her eyes in concentration. Another five seconds. Ten. She pulls back, shaking her head minutely. "Clear, Director. The corridor’s empty. Elevator bank chime just sounded. Going down."

Relief washes over you, cold and sharp, followed immediately by a fresh wave of guilt. The stage is set. You gesture towards the plush visitor chairs facing your desk. "Sit, Kazuha. Quick chat about this afternoon before you grab your own lunch."

She obeys, perching on the edge of the chair, her posture alert, tablet resting on her lap. Her bright eyes are fixed on you, curious, attentive. The competitive spark is there, banked but ready. She’s waiting for the next challenge.

You lean back in your chair, the expensive leather creaking. "Frankfurt call is straightforward. But later—4 PM. We have that video conference with Davies from the London office. Pitching the restructured East Asian logistics model. It’s high visibility. Davies reports directly to the board. A good impression here—" you bring emphasis on its significance, letting the ramifications dangle. “—matters. For the EA position.”

Kazuha’s spine straightens almost imperceptibly. Her fingers tighten slightly on the tablet. "Understood, Director. I have the revised model loaded and the key talking points memorized. I can brief you fully after lunch."

"That’s exactly it," is your reply, leaning forward slightly, resting your elbows on the desk. Your gaze locks onto hers. "I want you to lead the presentation, Kazuha. The core pitch. Handle Davies’s questions directly."

Her eyes widen. A flicker of surprise, then pure, unfettered ambition ignites within them. "Me, sir? Lead the pitch?" The fire blazes. This is the ultimate test, the chance to showcase her value directly, decisively.

"Correct. You," you confirm, nodding. "Your grasp of the human element, the way you articulate complex ideas—it’s precisely what this pitch needs. Momo’s brilliance is in the structure, the numbers. Yours? It’s in the sell. I need Davies convinced, not just informed. And I need to see you operate under that kind of pressure." 

‘I need to see if you can outperform her when it counts,’ is what you really meant. The unspoken thought hangs between you.

She absorbs the prospect, her mind racing. You can almost see the calculations flashing behind her eyes: the risk, the reward, the sheer, glorious opportunity to eclipse Momo in a high-stakes arena. A slow, determined smile spreads across her face, sharp and opportunistic. The challenge is eagerly accepted. "Consider it done, Director. I won’t disappoint." 

"Good," you say, a plan unfolding behind her back. "We’ll need to finalize the flow, anticipate his pushback. Which is why—" You pause, letting the moment build. "I want you to accompany me to lunch. Now. We can strategize properly over sushi. My treat. Consider it a working session." 

Kazuha’s smile doesn’t falter, but her gaze sharpens, becoming intensely analytical. She scans your face, then lets her eyes flicker subtly around the room. The meticulously cleared desk, the faint, lingering scent still detectable beneath the climate control’s sterile hum. Her nostrils flare almost imperceptibly. Her gaze drifts towards the polished surface of the mahogany desk, then snaps back to yours. A knowing glint enters her bright eyes, a flicker of something that isn’t surprise, but of recognition. 

"The air in here feels different, Director," she remarks, her tone deceptively light. Playful even. Her head tilts slightly, a spirited challenge in the gesture. "Stuffy? Or—perhaps something else lingered after Momo-san’s intensive briefing session this morning?" 

The emphasis on 'intensive' is delicate, pointed. Her beam remains bright, but there’s an edge to it now, a daring inquiry. She’s sniffed out the aftermath, the scent of transgression clinging to the leather and wood. And she’s letting you know she’s onto you.

Your pulse stutters. She’s far more observant, far more dangerous, than you gave her credit for. This is more than ambition; it’s strategic awareness. She sees the board, understands the pieces in play, including the volatile new variable introduced this morning, and she’s stepping onto the field anyway.

You force a perfunctory wave, a veil of nonchalance sliding into place, though your gut churns within. "Probably the climate control acting up again. Or maybe Momo spilled some of that strong coffee she brewed." 

Standing up, you reach for your coat, a clear signal to get moving. "Nothing to worry about. Come on. That fatty tuna won’t wait forever. We have a pitch to dominate." 

You meet her glare head-on, this unspoken game intensifying. Lunch isn’t merely about strategy anymore. It’s the next move in a high-stakes dance where Kazuha, armed with suspicion and ambition, is now fully—worryingly—in play. 

The clock ticks. The choice looms ever closer. And the scent of betrayal hangs heavy in the air she so pointedly noticed.

—————

The glossy, minimalist interior of Sora feels jarringly serene compared to the charged atmosphere of the office. The low murmur of other diners, the delicate clink of chopsticks, the subtle scent of wasabi and soy—it should be soothing. Instead, it feels like the calm before another storm. Sitting opposite Kazuha at a discreet corner table, plates of exquisite fatty tuna, uni, and delicate maki rolls remain mostly untouched between you.

Kazuha is in her element, her tablet propped beside her bento box, fingers tracing animatedly over bullet points on the screen. Her tailored pantsuit seems to hum with her focused energy. Her voice is crisp, confident, a stark contrast to the raw vulnerability Momo displayed just hours ago. "And Davies will likely push back on the projected savings from the regional hub consolidation. That’s where we pivot to the tangible efficiency gains in the last-mile delivery network. The data from the Busan pilot is irrefutable. We leverage that, emphasize the scalability—"

But you’re not hearing the words. Not really. Your attention is fixated on her. The way the sunlight catches the subtle gold highlights in her dark hair, pulled back in a sleek, efficient ponytail. The sharp, intelligent line of her jaw, softened slightly when she smiles at a point she’s making. The determined intensity in her bright eyes, flickering between the screen and your face. The surprising grace of her hands as they gesture. She’s always been competent, fiercely so, but now, in this detached observation, a different truth strikes you: She’s stunning. Not in a corporate way, but possessively, disarmingly pretty. 

The tailored suit doesn’t hide the graceful line of her neck, the subtle curve hinted beneath the structured fabric. It’s a revelation that hits with unexpected force, twisting the guilt about Momo into something more complex, more dangerous. The plan to isolate her, to test her, curdles into a different, more primal urge. 

Take her. Now. Before the meeting. Somewhere private. Claim her like you claimed Momo. Level the playing field in the most visceral way possible.

"—and that’s when we introduce the contingency mitigation matrix," Kazuha continues, tapping the screen decisively. She looks up, expecting some kind of confirmation, or at least engagement. Her eyes meet yours, and she pauses. The focused intensity falters, replaced by a flitter of confusion, then sharp assessment. 

"Director?" Her voice cuts through your reverie. "Are you following? You seem—distant. Jet lag hitting harder than usual?"

The question is professional, but her gaze is scrutinizing, dissecting your expression.

You jerk slightly, forcing a deep swallow of ice water that does nothing to cool the sudden heat flooding your veins. "Hmm? No, no jet lag. Just—absorbing the strategy. Davies is a shark. Your approach is sound." 

The words feel hollow, inadequate. You motion vaguely at your own nearly full plate. "Dig in. The tuna’s exceptional today."

Kazuha doesn’t give her food a glance. Her eyes narrow fractionally, that unnerving perceptiveness locking onto you. Her smile stays, but it’s tighter now, less genuine. "The tuna is exceptional, Director. Or so I assume. You’ve barely touched yours."

She leans forward slightly, elbows resting on the table, her voice dropping, losing its polished presentation cadence, becoming more intimate, more dangerous. "In fact, you’ve barely touched anything since we sat down. Not the strategy. Not the food." Her gaze flicks pointedly to your untouched sushi, then back to your face, holding yours with peturbing directness. "Your mind seems—preoccupied. Elsewhere. Planning the next move, perhaps?"

You try to deflect, reaching for your chopsticks with feigned nonchalance. "Just a lot on my plate, Kazuha. The promotion. The restructuring. The choice." 

Picking up a piece of tuna, it feels heavy and unappetizing. You end up setting it back down.

A beat of silence stretches, thick with the unspoken tension thrumming between you. Kazuha observes you, her head tilted, like a predator assessing its prey. She takes a deliberate sip of tea, placing the cup down with precise softness. When she speaks again, her voice is a low murmur, barely audible over the ambient restaurant sounds, yet it slices through you like a scalpel.

"Director," she begins, her tone deceptively casual, almost conversational. "About this morning. When you sent me down to Procurement." She pauses, letting the implication hang. Her eyes don't waver. "Manager Miyawaki was, as expected, buried in retrospective data. It took considerable effort to extract anything resembling a ground truth pain point." 

Another drawn out pause. The air between you grows thick, suffocating. Her finger traces the rim of her teacup. "It also gave me ample time to think. To—observe the variables."

Your blood runs cold. The chopstick slips from your fingers, clattering softly on the porcelain plate. The carefully constructed facade crumbles. You stare at her, unable to speak, the guilt and apprehension you’d been wrestling with now a crushing weight you can’t bear.

Kazuha continues, her voice still low, steady, but with an undercurrent of something hard. "The air in your office when I returned—it had changed. A distinct scent bubbling underneath the coffee and the climate control. Expensive perfume. Floral. Spicy. Her signature scent. And something else—muskier. More primal." She meets your dropping gaze squarely, as if pinning you down. "And the desk, Director. The mahogany near where you lean? It had a different sheen. Smudged. As if something had been hastily wiped away."

She leans forward even further, her voice falling to a conspiratorial whisper that sends shivers down your spine. "You dismissed Momo-san for lunch immediately after. Ordered her to take a full hour. Out of character generosity, especially with the Frankfurt prep looming. Then you ushered me in, told me to check if the corridor was clear—like you were afraid she might be listening." 

A faint, knowing smile touches her lips, devoid of its natural warmth. "The pieces weren't hard to assemble, Director. You sent me away on a fool's errand so you could be alone with her. And you used that time. Intimately."

The indictment hangs in the air, brutal in its clarity. The sushi restaurant fades away; all you see is Kazuha’s sharp, beautiful face, her eyes holding yours with a terrifying blend of accusation and pinpoint calculation. Shame floods you, hot and immediate. 

"Kazuha—" you stammer, your voice rough. "I—I don't know what to say. It was—complicated. A moment of—weakness. Profoundly unprofessional. I’m sor—"

She cuts you off with a sharp, almost imperceptible shake of her head and the lift of her arm, as if threatening to slap you. 

"Don't." The word is quiet but firm. "Don't apologize for the act, Director. Or for wanting her." 

Her glare intensifies. "I saw the way you looked at her afterward, when she walked out. And I see the way you’re looking at me now." She doesn't flinch, doesn't look away. "The guilt is pointless. The apology, unnecessary. I knew why you were sending me to Procurement the moment you gave the command. It’s among the slowest, most bureaucratic departments. A deliberate delay. A transparent ploy."

Your breath hitches. "You knew? And you went anyway?"

"Of course." Kazuha shrugs. A light, elegant motion. "Loyalty. Obedience. And—curiosity. To see what you would do. How far you would go." She leans back slightly, her posture relaxing infinitesimally, yet her eyes remain laser-focused. "I don't mind, Director. Truly. The game changed the moment the CEO issued his ultimatum. Alliances shift. Strategies evolve. Desires—surface." Her stare drops to your mouth for a fleeting second, then right back up. "What I do mind—is impartiality. An uneven playing field."

She pauses, letting the silence build again, her meaning crystal clear. She picks up her chopsticks, selects a perfect piece of tuna, and places it delicately in her mouth, chewing slowly, her eyes never leaving yours. The casualness of the act is unnerving.

"Impartiality?" you echo, your heart pounding against your ribs.

Kazuha swallows, dabbing her lips with a napkin. "Momo-san," she states bluntly, "leveraged a private moment. She gained insight. Influence. Intimacy," she emphasizes the last word, "She has data I do not possess. An advantage in this—extended performance review." 

A shade of her earlier, predatory smile returns. "That puts me at a distinct disadvantage, wouldn't you agree, Director? Especially when the criteria seem to be expanding beyond quarterly reports and merger timelines."

The implication is breathtaking in its audacity. She’s not angry about the betrayal; she’s strategizing. Assessing the context. Demanding parity. 

Your guilt curdles, replaced by a surge of incredulous heat. "Are you suggesting that—" you start, unable to fully voice it.

"That you level the field," Kazuha finishes smoothly, dropping back to that intimate murmur. "That we share a similar moment. Privately. Before the Davies call." 

Her gaze is unwavering, challenging, yet beneath the steel, there’s a flicker of something else: anticipation. Desire. 

"Consider it—due diligence. A necessary data point for your evaluation. To ensure your decision is based on a complete, unbiased assessment of all relevant competencies."

She leans forward again, the scent of her own perfume—lighter, fresher than Momo’s—like citrus and green tea, mingling with the soy and wasabi. "You look at me like you want it too, Director. Like you’ve wanted it. Perhaps longer than you even realized." Her hand rests on the table, inches from yours. No contact, but the proximity is charged with high tension. "I saw it this morning, even before I put the pieces together. That look—it wasn't just about the Henderson file."

She’s right. The hunger you felt looking at her, the plan forming even as she spoke about Davies—it wasn’t merely about manipulating the competition. It was her. Her fierce intelligence, her unexpected beauty, the dangerous edge beneath the polished professionalism. The memory of Momo’s surrender is suddenly overlaid with the visceral image of Kazuha yielding in a different way, on different terms.

The remaining pretense evaporates. The corporate veneer, the shame, the fear of consequences—it all shrivels under the furnace of her proposition and your own roaring desire. You meet her challenging gaze, the tension coiling tighter than any merger negotiation.

"Yes," you say, the word rough, but definitive. "I have. Wanted it. Wanted you." 

You don't look away; she needs to soak in every word. The admission feels like shedding a heavy layer of skin. "Since long before today. Since before the ultimatum." 

Kazuha’s smile blooms, not predatory, but triumphant. Satisfied. A hunter who’s cornered her quarry and found it willingly compliant.

"We have," she calculates swiftly, glancing at the trim watch on her wrist, "approximately ninety minutes before we need to be back for final prep. The Imperial Heights is three blocks away. Their penthouse suites offer exceptional—discretion. And efficiency." She raises an eyebrow, the challenge implicit. "Shall I make the reservation, Director? Or would you prefer to handle the logistics?"

The casual mention of the luxury hotel, the cool efficiency with which she transitions from blackmail to booking, is dizzying. She’s orchestrated this. Planned the move while you were still lost in lustful fantasies. The power dynamic shifts again, leaving you animated and slightly spellbound.

"Do it," you instruct, your voice low, charged. You push your untouched plate away, appetite replaced by a different, ravenous hunger. "Discretion is paramount." 

“Consider it handled." Kazuha nods, already pulling out her phone, her fingers flying over the screen with rehearsed speed. She doesn't bother to look up as she speaks. "A suite. Ninety minutes. Paid in cash under a corporate discretionary code I have access to. Untraceable." She finishes the transaction, slips the phone back into her coat pocket, and looks up, her eyes gleaming. "Done. We leave in five minutes. Finish your water, Director. You’ll need your strength."

She picks up her chopsticks again, selects another piece of tuna, and eats it with deliberate slowness, watching you over the rim of her water glass. The casual act is infused with potent, deliberate sensuality. Lunch is officially over. The next phase of the performance review has begun. And as you watch Kazuha, her beauty refined by her ruthless intellect and audacious demand, you understand the true cost of leveling the field. You’re not simply evaluating them anymore; they’re evaluating you. 

The stakes have been raised exponentially higher now. The clock is ticking down to the Davies meeting, while all you can think about is the taste of her skin and the terrifying power play that’s about to unfold in a penthouse suite three blocks away.

—————

The heavy door of the suite clicks shut behind you, the sound swallowed instantly by plush silence and the muffled roar of the city 14 floors below. Discretion, indeed.

Before the latch fully settles, Kazuha is all over you. Her mouth crashes against yours with none of Momo’s initial, calculated unraveling. This is fire and fury, a competitive hunger channeled into pure, claiming possession. Her fingers knot in your hair, pulling your head down to meet her demanding kiss. Your hands, acting on the frantic instinct she ignited over untouched sushi, grab her hips, pulling her flush against you. You fumble for the jacket buttons. The tailored lines of her pantsuit feel like an insulting barrier. 

She breaks the kiss with a gasp that’s half-laugh, half-challenge, her eyes blazing inches from yours. "Logistics, Director," she breathes, already shrugging out of the jacket before you can finish. It hits the marble floor with a soft thud. "Efficiency." Her fingers fly to the buttons of her crisp white blouse, popping them open with ruthless speed, revealing a simple black lace bra beneath. "No time for finesse."

Her urgency is contagious, a match to the aching heat coiling in your gut. You kiss her again, hard, your hands sliding under the open blouse, palms skimming the warm, smooth skin of her back, finding the clasp of her bra. She arches into the touch, a low moan vibrating against your lips as the lace gives way. The blouse follows the jacket, pooling around her feet as she pushes you back, her strength surprising.

Stumbling back your knees collide with the edge of the massive king bed. You fall onto the cool, expensive duvet. Kazuha follows you down, straddling your hips, her knees pinning your thighs. The black lace cups hang loose, barely containing the swell of her tits. Her hair, freed from its sleek ponytail, frames her face in dark, tousled waves. Her eyes, bright and fierce, hold yours captive.

"No," she commands, placing a hand flat on your chest when you try to sit up. "Stay. Answer."

The abrupt shift is startling. The heat radiating from her, the pressure of her body on yours, clashes violently with the ice in her gaze. This penthouse suite feels suddenly claustrophobic.

"You sent me away," she states, the words precise, cutting. "You cleared the field. You were alone with her." Her free hand trails down, not seductively, but inquisitively, tracing the line of your jaw, then your throat. The touch burns through your skin. "What did you do with Momo, Director? In my office? On my desk?"

The possessiveness in ‘my desk’ is a razor cut. Guilt and lust war within you, a deadly combination. You can’t lie. Not under that gaze. Not with the phantom scent of Momo’s skin still clinging to your memory, now overlain by Kazuha’s citrus-green tea perfume.

"Her blouse," you rasp, your voice thick. Your hands hover at her waist, desperate to touch, terrified to move. "The buttons. I—undid them." The confession feels ripped out, like a truth serum injected in your veins. "Slowly."

Kazuha’s eyes narrow. Her thumb presses against your pulse point, feeling its frantic hammering, delivering its own brand of punishment. "And?"

"Her skin," You swallow hard. The image is seared onto your retinas. "Hot. Smooth. She let me see." Your gaze flickers involuntarily to Kazuha’s own exposed skin, the black lace a stark contrast against pale flesh. "I touched her. Touched her tits. Cupped them. Squeezed."

An unreadable flicker passes through Kazuha’s eyes. Not of jealousy, but intense, analytical focus. "Describe them," she demands, her voice low, dangerous. "Fit? Perfect? Made for it?" She throws your own likely praise back at you like a weapon.

"Yes," you admit, the concession a heavy groan. The memory surges, vivid and punishing. "Full. Heavy. Perfect weight. Responsive." Your hands twitch on her hips. "I—I tasted them. Sucked. Licked. She cried out. Begged."

Kazuha leans down, her hair brushing your face. Her breath ghosts hot against your ear. "And then? Did you fuck her, Director? On the mahogany? Like the animal you felt like?" The crudeness coming from her is electrifying. 

"Yes," you gasp, nodding with light discomfort. The admission unleashes a torrent of confessed sins. "Hard. Fast. Against the desk. She screamed. Clawed at me. Took everything. Said—things. Begged for it. Begged for—me.” 

The words continue to tumble out, raw and unfiltered, painting a brutal, beautiful picture of Momo’s surrender. "She was—tight. So fucking tight. Wet. Hot. I came inside her—deep. Felt her milk me dry."

Silence hangs, thick and charged. Kazuha remains poised atop you, her expression inscrutable. Her breathing is slightly faster, her cheeks seared and flushed, but her gaze remains fiercely analytical, dissecting your confession, measuring it against—something. The competitive fire burns hotter than lust.

"Tight," she echoes finally, a thoughtful murmur. Her hand leaves your chest, drifting up to trace her own collarbone, then down, skimming the edge of the loose black lace covering her left breast. A deliberate, provocative movement. "Fit body. Of course she does. Military precision in everything, including her gym routine." 

A hint of something resembling respect colors her tone, quickly overshadowed by a sharper edge. She meets your eyes once more, a teasing smirk playing on her lips. "I’m not built like that, Director. Not—voluptuous."

Her grin deepens, turning wicked. "But I’m not weak." 

With a fluid, decisive motion, she reaches behind her back and unhooks her bra, the lace falling away. "I spend time at the gym too." 

Pulling the cups down slowly, revealing small, shapely breasts, pert and perfectly shaped, tipped with dusky pink nipples already firm from the adrenaline and the cool air. "Just—differently."

Still mounting you, Kazuha shifts her weight, reaching for the fastening of her tailored pants. The zipper hisses down, its sound like a sword being drawn. She lifts her hips, wriggling, pushing the expensive fabric down over her hips, revealing matching black lace panties, then further, down her thighs. Kicking them off, the pants join the growing pile of discarded armor on the bedroom floor.

"Efficiency," she repeats, her voice husky now, laced with a challenge you can’t refuse. Hooking her thumbs into the sides of her panties, she demands your every attention. Her eyes meet with yours, holding you prisoner. "No time for finesse, remember?"

Kazuha pushes the lace down in a single smooth motion, baring her cunt at the apex of her slender, toned thighs. She lifts her knees, pulling the panties down her legs, over her ankles, and flicks them aside with a toe.

Then she rises, standing tall beside the bed, bathed in the cool afternoon light filtering through the penthouse windows. Completely bare. Utterly exposed. And utterly in command.

"Look," she commands, her voice low and steady. "Look at me, Director. Look at what I offer."

And you do. You drink her up, take in her seraphic physique with stunned awe. Where Momo was lush curves and surrendered strength, Kazuha is a study in lean, tensile power. Her body is a sculptor’s dream of slender lines and defined muscle—the subtle ridges of her abdomen, the elegant sweep of her collarbones, the firm, compact roundness of her breasts, the long, graceful line of her legs honed by whatever disciplined routine she follows. The light catches the faint sheen of sweat on her skin, highlighting the definition in her shoulders, the tautness of her thighs. 

She’s not fragile; she’s a honed blade–beautiful and dangerous.

The silence stretches. Thick with the weight of her audacious display and the raw vulnerability beneath her defiance. She holds your gaze, unflinching, letting you see every inch, every contour. This isn’t an offer; it’s a statement. An evaluation on her own terms. 

The gilded cage of the office feels galaxies away. Here, in this sterile luxury suite, with 70 minutes ticking down to a high-stakes presentation, the only performance review that matters is happening right now, on Kazuha’s fiercely claimed stage.

“Since you’ve got those grubby hands on her tits and pussy,” she chirps, crouching forward, taking firm lease of your wrinkled shirt. Assessing the damage, further adding to the laundry list of incriminating evidence. Unbuttoning them in quick succession, she parts your chest, tossing the piece of clothing to the side. “Can’t look so ruined for the meeting later, can we?”

You shake your head in agreement, firmly locked up in Kazuha’s control.

Her flexibility and adaptability had been one of her strongest assets. Never did you think it applied in the literal sense too.

Stretching her toned legs close to parallel ends of the bed, she hovers atop your body, helpless and vulnerable beneath her. Hovering up your chest, her pussy finds itself inches away from your face. Throbbing, twitching, wanting. 

Dangerously drenched and wet, like the thought of what’s to come arouses her. It leaves you speechless.

“Did ballet in my youth,” she explains, looking down, despite your eyes not directly in view. Ignoring the fact that your attention is fixated on her quivering pussy, your tongue watering. “Still do in my spare time, actually.”

Her words hang in the cool air, charged and undeniable. Kazuha’s lithe form hovers above you, a study in controlled power and deliberate exposure. The scent of her slick floods your senses even before making contact. Her thighs, taut with the strain of her ballet-honed flexibility, frame the glistening apex of her cunt, like a sacred offering demanding worship. You’re pinned, not only by her knees bracketing your ribs, but also by the fierce, analytical fire in her eyes. This isn’t surrender; it’s a meticulously staged evaluation.

She descends.

Not with crushing weight, but with deliberate, unhurried pressure. The first touch is a searing brand: the hot, swollen flesh of her outer lips pressing against your mouth, smearing your lips with her slick. It’s an electric shock, the taste bursting across your tongue: tangy salt, underlying sweetness, uniquely her. 

A choked gasp escapes you, muffled instantly by her flesh. Above you, Kazuha lets out a low, shuddering sigh, her head tipping back, eyes momentarily fluttering shut before snapping back open, fixing on yours with laser focus. 

Her hand fists in your hair, not painfully, but possessively, anchoring you. "Taste it, Director," she breathes, thick but controlled. "Taste what you sent me away for. Taste what I have."

The invitation fuels your hunger. You obey. Instinct takes over, guided by the saccharine scent and her demanding grip. Your tongue flicks out, tentative at first, tracing the slick seam of her. A jolt runs through her, a full-body tremble that vibrates against your face. A sharp, bitten-off whimper escapes her lips.

"More," she commands, the word strained. Her hips make a minute, involuntary grind against your mouth.

You delve deeper. Your tongue parts her folds, seeking the source of that intoxicating wetness. Finding her entrance, swollen and yielding, and circling it slowly, savoring the silken texture, the way her inner muscles flutter in response. Her grip on your hair tightens, a silent demand for pressure. Press the flat of your tongue firmly against her opening, lapping at the gathered nectar. The taste intensifies, flooding your senses—musky, complex, utterly consuming. Her thighs clamp tighter around your head, a velvet vise.

"Yes—" she hisses, the form in her voice cracking. "Like that—fuck—just like that—"

You explore even further, mapping her terrain with your tongue. You find the hard, eager nub of her clit, swollen and pulsing like a trapped heartbeat. A feather-light flick across it, flat and purposeful.

Kazuha jolts. A ragged cry tears from her throat, echoing in the sterile luxury of the suite. Her back arches violently off your chest, her body suspended in a trembling arc. "God! Right—there—don’t stop—don’t you dare stop—"

Encouraged, emboldened by the shattering of her composure, you focus your assault. You circle her clit with firm, insistent strokes of your tongue, mimicking the relentless pace she demands in the boardroom. Suckling gently first, then harder, drawing the sensitive bud between your lips. Her cries escalate, fracturing into high, keening whines. Her free hand scrabbles against the duvet, wrestling the fabric. Her hips begin to rock in desperate, erratic little rounds against your mouth, riding your tongue, seeking more friction, deeper contact.

The slow burn ignites into a wildfire. Her scent, her taste, the desperate sounds she makes—it’s an intoxicating feedback loop. You bury your face deeper, pressing your nose deeper against the wiry curls at the base of her mound, breathing her in. Your tongue plunges into her wet core, fucking her shallowly, before withdrawing to lavish attention back on her clit, alternating your rhythm, keeping her teetered on the edge. You feel her tightening around the tip of your tongue when you delve inside, a prelude to the convulsions you know are coming.

"Oh fuck—oh fuck—I can’t—" she babbles, her words dissolving into incoherent whimpers. Her thighs are trembling violently now, slick with sweat and her own arousal where they press harshly against your cheeks. Her breath comes in short, sharp intervals. "You’re—gonna make me—I’m gonna—"

She doesn’t finish her sentence. The seismic shift beneath your mouth is unmistakable. 

Kazuha’s entire body locks up, rigid as a bowstring pulled taut. A guttural, animalistic groan rips from her chest, raw and primal. Her cunt clenches spasmodically around your probing tongue, a pulsing, rhythmic vise. A hot flood of slick gushes against your lips, chin, and cheeks—her release, copious and uncontrollable, drenching you in her essence. 

It tastes like victory and salt and pure, unadulterated Kazuha.

The orgasm rolls through her in violent waves. Her hips buck wildly against your face, grinding down, seeking every last ounce of pleasure as her body milks the imaginary intrusion. Her cries are screams and curses of abandon, echoing off the penthouse walls. Tears streak down her temples, mingling with sweat. Her grip on your hair is almost painful, holding you locked against her as she convulses.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the tremors subside. The frantic rocking gentles to shallow, involuntary shudders. Her grip on your hair loosens, her hand falling limp on the bed beside your head. Her body sags, collapsing forward, her chest heaving against yours, slick with sweat. The fierce warrior is gone, replaced by a trembling, utterly spent creature. 

You lie perfectly still beneath her, your face covered with her release. The taste of her, citrus-sharp and musky-sweet, still coats your lips as Kazuha lays forward, her spent body trembling inches ahead against yours. Her ragged breaths warm your sternum, her heartbeat a frantic drum against your ribs. 

For a moment, it feels like surrender. A ceasefire. Except it isn’t.

Kazuha pushes herself up slowly, bracing her palms against your sweat-slicked chest. Her dark hair clings to her temples, her eyes—bright, fierce, and utterly clear—lock onto yours. There’s no lingering haze of release, only a renewed focus. A predator assessing its next move. A faint, dangerous smile touches her kiss-swollen lips.

"Not bad, Director," she rasps, her voice scraped raw but laced with deliberate, teasing appraisal. Her thumb traces the wetness glistening on your chin—her wetness. "Competent technique. Efficient. But—" She leans closer, her breath ghosting over your mouth. "—eating me out was the appetizer. Momo got the main course, right? Your cock buried deep inside her. Claiming her. Filling her."

Her hips shift subtly against your thighs, a deliberate spark of friction that reignites the heat low in your belly. Her gaze doesn’t waver. 

"It would be—profoundly unfair," she murmurs, the corporate euphemism laced with carnal intent, "if my performance review lacked that critical data point. Don’t you agree?" 

Her hand slides down your abdomen, fingers deftly finding the waistband of your trousers, tracing the straining outline beneath. "I need a comparative analysis. Firsthand."

The demand hangs in the air, a challenge wrapped in velvet. The clock on the sleek bedside table glows with urgency. 53 minutes remain. Davies looms. Dad’s ultimatum ticks. None of which warrant your dire attention. Only the fierce intelligence blazing in her eyes, the possessive pressure of her hand, and the roaring need she’s rekindled.

You don’t hesitate. Leveraging your strength, you grip her waist firmly, hauling her limp-but-willing body back up your torso. She gasps, a sound of surprise morphing instantly into approval as you maneuver her, settling her firmly astride your lap. Her bare thighs bracket your hips, her slick heat pressed directly against the fabric trapping your aching cock. The position forces her to look down at you, her face inches from yours, her expression a mix of triumph and raw anticipation.

"Level the field, Kazuha?" you growl, your voice gravelly. "Prove the playing field is even?"

"Due diligence," she counters breathlessly, her smile sharpening. 

Her hands are already at work, fingers flying over your belt buckle with terrifying efficiency. The clasp snaps open, followed by the pop of the button. The zipper hisses down. She maintains eye contact, her gaze holding yours captive as she shoves the fabric over your hips, freeing your throbbing cock. The cool air is a shock, instantly replaced by the searing heat of her palm wrapping around your length, giving one long, possessive stroke that draws a guttural groan from your throat.

"Now we’re talking," she purrs, leaning in. Her mouth crashes against yours, not in tentative exploration but in a fierce, claiming kiss. Her tongue invades, demanding, tasting herself on your lips. It’s messy and merciless. A struggle for control fought with lips and teeth and shared, desperate breaths. Her hand pumps you slowly, firmly, settling on a rhythm that mirrors your frantic heartbeat.

The angle is perfect. You grip her hips tighter, fingers digging into the firm muscle of her ass. With a grunt of effort, you lift her slight frame easily—ballet strength meeting desperate need. Her knees dig into the mattress on both sides of your thighs. She understands instantly, bracing her hands on your shoulders, her eyes widening slightly as she feels the blunt, insistent pressure of your cockhead against her drenched entrance.

"Show me," she sighs against your lips, the challenge explicit. "Show me what you gave her."

The command sets you off. You thrust upwards. Hard.

She cries out—a sharp, surprised sound instantly swallowed by your mouth as you impale her in one smooth, relentless stroke. She’s tight—a different kind of tightness than Momo’s voluptuous grip. Kazuha’s cunt is a sleek, silken sheath, hot and clinging, molded perfectly around your invading length, muscles fluttering in shocked, exquisite welcome. Her inner walls grip you like a velvet fist, impossibly intimate, impossibly right.

"Fuck!" she gasps, breaking the kiss, her head thrown back, exposing the elegant line of her throat. Her back arches, pressing her small, perfect breasts against your chest. "Oh God—yes— that's—so—fucking—big—"

You don’t give her room to breathe. Your hands lock onto her hips, guiding her, setting a brutal, driving pace right from the start. She meets you thrust for thrust, her body a coiled spring releasing pent-up energy. Her hips roll and grind down onto you with fierce precision, taking you impossibly deep, milking your cock with the same ruthless efficiency she applies to spreadsheets. The bed creaks violently beneath you; the headboard slams against the wall in rhythmic protest.

Moans tear from both of you. Raw, unvarnished sounds that fill the otherwise aseptic suite. There’s no corporate veneer here, only unadulterated lust and a frantic, competitive drive to outperform, to conquer, to win. 

You bury your face against the sweat-slicked column of her neck, teeth scraping, lips sucking, leaving blooming marks: dark, possessive bruises against her pale skin. Your mouth trails lower, capturing a peaked nipple, sucking hard, swirling your tongue, reveling in her sharp cry and the way her cunt clenches convulsively around you.

"Harder!" she demands, her voice cracking, her fingers clawing at your back, at the nape of your neck. "Fuck me harder! Don't hold back! Don’t fucking stop!"

There’s no denying Kazuha, even if you dared to try. Your grip on her hips becomes bruising, slamming her down onto your upward thrusts with brutal force. Your pace becomes punishing, a frantic race towards oblivion. The wet slap of flesh on flesh, her gasping cries, your own guttural groans—it’s a symphony of abandon. Her lean muscles flex and strain beneath your hands, her body a perfect instrument of pleasure meeting your every demand, pushing back with equal ferocity. She rides you so fucking well, chasing her own peak with single-minded intensity, her inner walls tightening, fluttering, signaling the approach of a second climax.

“Yes—” she hisses, her body bowing, trembling like a plucked wire. "There—right there—gonna cum—again—”

Kazuha’s cry is sharp, triumphant. Her pussy spasms violently around your cock, a pulsing, rhythmic vise that steals your breath. Her release is another hot flood, drenching your shared union. Body convulsing as she grinds down, demanding everything you have.

The sight of her fierce, controlled beauty unraveling completely in your lap, the feel of her silken walls draining you with desperate intensity, the raw, possessive sounds she makes—it’s your undoing. It shatters you. 

With a roar torn from the depth of your lungs, you bury yourself deep in her womb, holding her hips flush against yours as your own climax detonates. Suffocating heat surges up your spine, erupting in thick, pulsing jets deep inside her clenching warmth. Emptying yourself completely in her, each spurt wrenched from you by the fierce suction of her orgasm, filling her, claiming her in the most primeval way possible. 

Your vision whites out, consciousness narrowing to the burning point of connection, the feel of her trembling around you, the scent of sex and sweat and Kazuha.

The frenetic energy evaporates like steam. Kazuha slumps forward, her body boneless, her forehead resting against your collarbone. Her breath comes in ragged, whistling gasps against your skin. Yours matches it, harsh and labored. The room, once loud and chaotic, now floods with a sudden void of quiet. Only your shared struggle for air and the feverish thudding of your hearts slowly beginning to ease.

Slowly, carefully, your ironclad grip on her hips loosens. She makes a soft, incoherent sound of protest as your softening cock slips from her heat, followed by a slow trickle of your combined release onto your thighs. The evidence is stark, undeniable.

Exhaustion, profound and absolute, crashes over you both. Still joined in the cradle of your lap, you lean back, collapsing together onto the rumpled duvet. Kazuha doesn’t resist, curling instinctively against your chest, her head finding solace beneath your chin. One of her slender arms drapes across your waist, her fingers splaying covetously over your hip. Your own arm wraps around her, holding her close, feeling the rapid flutter of her pulse gradually slow against your skin.

Silence descends, thick and heavy, now filled with the aftermath rather than anticipation. The sterile luxury of the penthouse suite feels like a desolate planet. The scent of sex is overwhelming: a heady, intimate perfume. Kazuha’s skin burns hot where it presses against yours, damp with sweat. Her breathing evens out, growing calmer and deeper. The fierce competitor in her disappears, replaced by a sated, vulnerable warmth curled against your embrace.

You stare up at the ceiling, the pristine white expanse offering no answers. The taste of her, the feel of her tight heat, the possessive marks on her neck, the knowledge of your seed deep inside her—it’s a brand, seared onto your consciousness alongside the memory of Momo’s surrender on your desk. The playing field isn’t leveled, not in the slightest; if anything, it’s mined with complications. Davies awaits. The 72-hour clock, closer to 48 now, ticks relentlessly towards an impossible choice. The scent of betrayal—your betrayal, their competition—hangs heavier than ever.

Kazuha stirs gently, nuzzling closer. Her voice, when it comes, is a sleep-thickened murmur, devoid of its earlier sharpness, yet carrying a weight that settles deep in your gut.

"Data collected, Director," she sighs, her breath warm against your skin. Her fingers tighten minutely on your hip. "Analysis pending."

The clock glows. A little too bright for tired eyes. 32 minutes till Frankfurt. As far you know, the performance review isn’t over, it’s entered its most devastating phase. You hold her closer, the warmth of her body a temporary solace against a chilling reality: no matter who you choose, you’ve already lost.

—————

Hours later, the air in your office still crackles with the afterburn of Kazuha’s triumph. Davies’ face, a pixelated smear of genuine approval moments ago, has vanished from the screen, leaving behind the echo of his closing words: "Impressive restructuring model, Miss Nakamura. Exceptionally well-articulated. We look forward to the East Asia pivot under your Director's leadership." 

The silence that follows isn't empty; it's thick with the unspoken tension thrumming between you and Kazuha, a live wire strung taut across the mahogany desk.

Kazuha leans back in the plush guest chair, sweat glistening at her temples despite the room's tempered chill. Her tailored pantsuit is pristine, her tablet resting neatly on her lap, but her eyes hold a fierce, luminous exhaustion—and something else. A quiet, possessive satisfaction aimed directly at you. 

"Ground truth delivered, Director," she murmurs, the ghost of a crafty smile touching her lips. The phrase, once sterile corporate jargon, now feels loaded and personal. A reminder of the data point collected in that penthouse suite, the desperate coupling that followed her demand for parity. Her gaze flicks, almost imperceptibly, towards the polished surface of the desk.

Before you can formulate a response, the heavy oak door clicks open.

Momo stands framed in the doorway. Her entrance is characteristically precise, heels clicking a measured staccato on the polished concrete. Her expression is the usual mask of professional neutrality, but her eyes sweep the room, taking in Kazuha’s relaxed posture, your own slightly disheveled state (a button undone at the collar, hair perhaps ruffled from running a nervous hand through it during Davies’ tougher questions). She sees the lingering energy, the shared secret hanging in the air. Her gaze lingers on the desk for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. 

"The call concluded smoothly, I trust?" Her voice is smooth, devoid of inflection, yet it feels like an indictment. She knows. She always knows.

Kazuha’s smile widens, bold and sharp. "Exceptionally, Momo-san. Davies was practically eating out of my hand by the end. The synergy projections, the contingency matrix—he loved it all. Didn't he, Director?" 

She turns that bright, expectant gaze on you, forcing acknowledgment.

"She was flawless," you confirm, the words tasting like dust. The compliment is genuine: Kazuha was brilliant, intuitive, persuasive, but voicing it here, now, with Momo’s impassive gaze dissecting you, feels like picking a side. "Handled every curveball Davies threw. Secured buy-in."

Momo inclines her head—a precise, pinpoint motion. "Efficient. Well-executed, Zuha." The praise is delivered with glacial correctness. Her eyes, however, remain fixed on you. 

The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken things: the scent of expensive floral-spicy perfume that might still cling to the leather chair Kazuha occupies, the phantom memory of Momo’s bare skin against cool mahogany, the echo of Kazuha’s cries in the sterile penthouse. The desk feels like an altar to your transgressions.

"A successful day, then. Henderson secured this morning. Davies secured this afternoon." It’s Momo who breaks the brittle quiet, stepping fully into the room. Her heels click closer to the desk. She lets the weight of the achievements settle—accomplishments built on their relentless, cutthroat drive, powered by your impossible choice. Her gaze, when it lifts to meet yours, is unnervingly direct, stripped of its usual corporate veneer. "What’s the status on the—primary decision, Director?"

The question lands like a tactical grenade. Kazuha’s playful energy instantly sharpens, her posture straightening mechanically. Both pairs of eyes lock onto you. The room shrinks, the city lights beyond the window blurring into minute insignificance.

"Swayed?" you echo, the word scraping out. You comb a hand through your hair, the gesture encompassing the exhaustion, the guilt, the sheer, crushing weight of it. A hollow laugh escapes your lips. "Christ. You both—" You gesture helplessly between them, the brilliant, terrifying women who hold your professional fate—and far more—in their hands. "Momo, your control, your foresight—Kazuha, that fire, that adaptability—You saw Davies. You both know what you bring. How the fuck do I quantify that? How do I choose between—" You trail off, the corporate euphemism dying on your tongue. "Between irreplaceable assets?"

"Between us, you mean," Kazuha clarifies, low and intense. No room for professional evasion now.

You meet her gaze, then Momo’s. The icy pragmatism in the older woman’s eyes is undercut by a flicker of something raw—the same vulnerability you’d unglued on this very desk. Kazuha’s fierce determination holds a possessive edge, forged in the heat of the penthouse. The images crash together: Momo arching beneath you, surrendering control with a shattered gasp; Kazuha demanding parity, her body a honed blade marking you. 

The leaden anchor of guilt settles deeper in your gut.

"Yes," you admit, the word raw. "Between you. And no. I'm not swayed. Not definitively. It's—" You search for the word, finding only the brutal truth. "It's fucking impossible."

Momo’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. Kazuha leans forward, elbows on her knees. "Impossible doesn't fly with the CEO, Director," the younger woman reminds you, her response laced with a warning. "The clock is ticking."

"Less than 48 hours remain," states Momo, regaining her clipped efficiency, though the lack of polish lingers beneath the surface. "Sufficient time for further—evaluation." The pause before evaluation is deliberate, heavy with the memory of her own ‘interview.’

The word feels like a brand. Evaluation. Performance reviews that bled into passionate claims, professional boundaries obliterated by desperate need and ruthless strategy. You feel flayed open. Exposed.

"I know," you manage, tight with their crushing grip. The weight of today—the mergers, the presentations, the crushing intimacy, the looming dismissal—it’s all crashing down. "And I will. But not now. The workday is over. Get out of here. Both of you." 

The dismissal is firmer than intended, a desperate need for the suffocating pressure of their combined presence to lift.

The women exchange a glance—a fleeting, unreadable communication that passes between rivals who understand each other far too well. Momo nods once, curt and precise. 

"Understood, Director. Try to rest." 

Her words aren't gentle; they're an order, a cautionary reminder of the battles yet to come. She turns, her posture still ramrod straight, and walks out, the door clicking shut with finality.

Kazuha rises more slowly. She flashes you a smile that doesn't reach her watchful eyes. "Sweet dreams, boss. Dream of—streamlined reporting chains." 

The sardonic twist on corporate jargon is pointed. She lingers for a heartbeat, her gaze sweeping over you, the desk, the room, before following Momo out. The silence they leave behind is absolute, oppressive, amplifying the frantic buzzing in your skull.

Alone.

The indifferent city sprawls below, a tapestry of lights mocking your turmoil. 

Then there’s your father’s voice, dry, rasping, devoid of parental warmth, echoes in the cavernous silence of your mind, a relentless ghost haunting this gilded cage. "Sentiment is inefficient. Choose." 

The cold calculus of his world—one promoted, one discarded—feels like a vise crushing your chest.

The cool glass does nothing to soothe the heat of shame and confusion pooling within. Pushing yourself away from the window, your steps inevitably lead back to the mahogany monstrosity you call your desk. Your hand drifts across its polished surface, tracing the grain. 

Here. This is where control shattered. Where Momo’s icy precision dissolved into eager surrender, where professional lines were irrevocably crossed. The phantom scent of her perfume, the memory of her heat, the sound of her choked gasp as you claimed her—it floods back, visceral and punishing.

A heavier weariness pulls you down. You sink back into your obscenely expensive chair, the leather sighing, crying out your turmoil. The Henderson file, a casualty of that morning’s frenzy, sits neatly stacked now, a monument to Momo’s terrifying efficiency in covering the tracks. 

But the desk—the desk remembers everything.

Your hand moves almost of its own volition, dipping into the inner pocket of your suit jacket. Your fingers brush against soft, delicate lace. You pull them out.

Kazuha’s panties. Black lace, slightly damp still from her frantic arousal in the penthouse elevator, from the heat of your sexually-charged union. The memento you’d pocketed unconsciously, a visceral token of her victory, her demand for parity fulfilled. They feel absurdly small, impossibly intimate in your hand, a stark counterpoint to the sterile corporate power the desk represents.

You hold them up as city lights glint through the delicate weave. One woman’s submission etched into mahogany. The other’s fierce claim a trophy in your pocket. Momo’s controlled intensity. Kazuha’s blazing adaptability. Both essential. Both devastating. Both paths leading to ruin.

The panties slip from your fingers, landing softly on the cold surface of the desk beside the Henderson file. A silent accusation. A symbol of the impossible choice. You stare at them, then at the sprawling, indifferent city beyond the glass. 

Your heart isn't just at a crossroads; it feels shredded, pulled apart by the competing forces of desire, guilt, professional necessity, and the chilling echo of your father's ultimatum. The mahogany desk, the lace on its surface, the city lights—they all blur. You lean back into your chair, the eerie silence amplifying the frantic, solitary pounding within your ribs. 

Two days. Two brilliant, terrifying women. One promotion. One dismissal. 

And you, trapped in the wreckage of your own making, have absolutely no idea which way to turn.

—————

Your alarm greets you incessantly in the morning.

Slamming a clenched fist on the top button, you render it quiet. Moving by instinct, your hand grips on the clock, clawing it from the bedside desk over to your half-glazed retinas. As you check for the time, they snap wide open in a panic. A crushing realization jumpstarts your day.

You’re catastrophically late. It’s already 8:42 AM.

At such a crucial time as this, right as the doomsday clock ticks ever closer, barely over a day from judgment, your absence might as well ring the death knell to your position in the company. Especially as a newly appointed head. The image of your employees, Momo and Kazuha especially, waiting in that sterile 18th floor hive, expecting their newly minted Director—it curdles your stomach. 

You try to surge upright, a desperate lunge for dignity. Instead, your body rebels. Like moving through wet concrete.

A wave of weakness crashes over you, leaving you gasping, slumped back against sweat-damp pillows. Every muscle screams—a deep, pervasive ache that feels suspiciously like the aftermath of being thoroughly used by both a relentless pragmatist and a fiery challenger within the span of 24 hours. But it’s more than that: heat radiates from your core, your skin feels tight and oversensitive, and your head pounds with a sickening rhythm that echoes the frantic ticking of your father’s deadline. 

Stress. Overthinking. The half-remembered haze of emptying your father's ridiculously expensive cognac decanter last night in a futile attempt to drown the impossible choice. Probably all of the fucking above, your fevered brain supplies. The universe, it seems, has intervened with brutal efficiency, grounding you.

Your phone, discarded on the rumpled duvet, erupts. Not a ring, but a frantic, restless buzzing vibration that rattles against the mattress. You drag it closer, the screen painfully bright and blinding.

> MM (08:15): Director. Your 8:30 Strategy Sync is assembled in Conference Room B. Awaiting your arrival.

> MM (08:30): Director? Status update required.

> KZH (08:32): Boss? Everything okay? You're never late for the Sync. Miyawaki-san is looking twitchy.

> MM (08:40): Director. Please advise. Henderson finalization call with Legal is scheduled for 9:15. Requires your pre-brief.

> KZH (08:41): Seriously, boss. Where are you? Did you finally snap and flee the country? (kidding— mostly)

> MM (08:42): Kazuha, maintain professionalism. Director, your presence is critical.

The messages scroll like accusations. Professional concern from Momo, laced with that unsettling, inferred awareness you know she possesses. Kazuha’s slightly irreverent worry, masking her own fierce curiosity. The weight of their expectations, their competition, their bodies pressing down on you, even when they’re not around, feels suffocating. 

You fumble with the phone, thumbs clumsy and heavy, eventually typing a single, shaky message, copying both:

> Severe illness. Cannot come in. Handle all agendas as discussed yesterday. Prioritize Henderson finalization. Momo, lead Legal call. Kazuha, manage Miyawaki logistics fallout. Operate as normal. Do not disturb.

You hit send before you can second-guess the curtness. The silence that follows is brief, then the replies chime almost simultaneously.

> MM: Understood, Director. Focus on recovery. We will manage operations efficiently. Henderson will be finalized per your directives. Rest well.

> KZH: Oh no! Get well soon, boss!! 😷 Don’t worry about a thing, we’ve got this! Stay hydrated! Sleep!

A flicker of something almost like relief warms you for a microsecond. They’ll handle it. They always do. But then, the follow-ups arrive, puncturing the fragile calm:

> MM: A reminder: The 72-hour window for your decision regarding the Executive Assistant position closes tomorrow EOD. Utilize today for necessary—contemplation. 

The pause before contemplation screams volumes. Momo knows. She knows exactly the kind of contemplation yesterday involved, at least where she’s concerned.

> KZH: Yeah, what Momo-san said! Feel better fast! Big day tomorrow!! Maybe dream about org charts instead of—well, you know. 😉 Rest up!

Kazuha’s emoji is a playful dagger. Dream productively, she might as well have said. Think beyond the feel of my thighs locking around your head or Momo-san’s perfect tits in your hands. 

The reminder of the deadline, delivered with faux cheer and sharp insight, lands like a physical blow. Tomorrow. You have to choose. Fire one. Promote the other. After—everything.

The phone falls from your limp hand, thudding softly on the duvet. The silence of the bedroom is absolute now, save for your own ragged breathing and the restless drumming of your pulse in your ears. Weakness pins you to the bed. The fever paints lurid pictures of yesterday behind your closed eyelids: Momo, back arched against cold mahogany, control shattering into breathless pleas; Kazuha, demanding parity with fierce, analytical eyes, her body a clandestine blade claiming its due in the sterile penthouse light. The scent of expensive perfume and sex and desperation seems to cling to the sheets.

Guilt, thick and corrosive, mixes with the physical misery. It’s a constant devil on your shoulder. A monument of your transgressions. You exploited Momo’s unraveling. You succumbed to Kazuha’s strategic blackmail. You betrayed the very professionalism your position demands. And now, when you need clarity, when you desperately need to think, your body has staged a mutiny. 

The universe isn’t merely intervening; it’s laughing. After all, actions have consequences.

A fresh wave of chills wracks you, pulling a groan from your cracked lips. You curl onto your side, seeking a cool spot on the pillow. The room tilts slightly. Dad’s voice, dry and devoid of warmth, echoes in the hollow space your fever has carved out in your mind, his silhouette forming on the bedroom walls, coming to life:

"Sentiment is inefficient. Choose."

Impossible, like you said. How do you choose between Momo’s terrifyingly efficient surrender and Kazuha’s brilliantly demanding triumph. Between the cool, controlled depths and the blazing, adaptive fire. Both paths lead to destruction. Both choices feel like a betrayal—of them, of yourself, of any semblance of integrity left in this corporate prison.

The only thing clear is the crushing weight pressing you down: the fever burning through your veins, the ache in muscles used and abused, the phantom taste of two very different women—and the cold, immutable fact that tomorrow, sick or not, broken or not, you must decide. And right now, trapped in the wreckage of your own making, limp and aching and utterly alone, you have absolutely no idea which lane leads to a lesser hell. 

The silence of the room offers no answers, only the echo of that single, devastating word: Choose.

—————

You’re already at your office early the next day. Early enough to watch the sun rise over the slowly waking city.

After the hell you’ve slept in that was yesterday, your fingers twitch uncontrollably, a seeming unwillingness to pull the mandated trigger. You’re not feeling any better, at least mentally and emotionally. The night kept you restless. Your brain stormed through countless possible outcomes despite the linearity and simpleness of the decision.

Aside from the HVAC, your heavy, deep breaths fill the otherwise silent room. Making this decision proves to be harder than any report, document, or interview you’ve ever done. One way or another, there will be a fallout, a domino effect, a snowball of consequences, both in the short and long term.

As said time and time again, Momo and Kazuha are irreplaceable. There’s no getting around it. You may eventually find a replacement, a body that can hopefully fill in the gaps that will be lost when the other leaves, but they’re one in a million. A synergistic pairing that simply can’t be replicated, authentically or algorithmically.

Closing your eyes, keeping your thoughts sharp and precise, empty of any meaningless, superficial thought. It’s the chime of the elevator snapping them open, followed by the echo of the heavy oak door.

“Good morning, boss,” Momo greets you curtly, to the point. “Today’s the big day. I hope the time off gave you the clarity you needed to make your decision.”

“Morning, boss!” Kazuha follows, brimming with life, as per usual. Already holding your double espresso coffee in hand, made specifically catered to your preference. “I hope you’re feeling better now.”

You certainly are, somewhat. Their steady presence is infectious; you can’t imagine a day without them together.

“Before we get to today’s agendas,” you tell them, swiveling your chair from the city to them, standing in front of you, “Please take a seat. Both of you.”

The two women follow, taking opposing guest chairs, separated from you by your desk. Momo sits upright, avoiding contact with her seat, hands quietly folded, whereas Kazuha leans back, one leg over the other, placing the freshly brewed coffee on the table. 

“What seems to be your concern, director?” asks Momo, narrowing her eyebrows, her gaze deep, focused.

“Something wrong?” Kazuha adds, analytical, searching for key points in your body language and expression, looking increasingly concerned.

Prolonged silence stretches, taut as a piano wire after their worried inquiries. Momo’s ramrod posture radiates coiled tension; Kazuha’s forced cheerfulness can’t mask the wary calculation in her eyes. 

You lean back in the obscenely expensive ergonomic chair; the leather groans softly, your fingers steepled before your lips. The scent of Kazuha’s fresh espresso mingles uneasily with the phantom traces of Momo’s floral-spicy perfume and something muskier, deeper—the ghosts of Tuesday’s transgressions clinging to the mahogany. But that’s not important right now.

"Like I said, before we address today’s agendas," you begin, carefully neutral, scraping against the oppressive quiet, "there’s a procedural matter I must perform." 

You meet each of their gazes in turn: Momo’s dark, unreadable pools. Kazuha’s bright, analytical scrutiny. "Effective immediately, we will be conducting impromptu exit interviews."

The declaration lands like bombs. The air sparks, thick enough to choke on. Momo doesn’t flinch, but the knuckles of her clasped hands go bone-white. Kazuha’s leg stops bouncing, frozen mid-air. Her smile vanishes, replaced by a veil of icy shock.

"Exit interviews?" Kazuha echoes, her voice higher than usual, brittle. "Director, I—"

"Policy," you cut in, the word a cold, efficient knife. Your father’s ghost seems to loom over your shoulder, whispering the same tired statement: sentiment is inefficient. 

"Standard procedure during restructuring periods. Consider it—a formality. A necessary step." 

The lie tastes sour in your mouth. 

“Only one question. Please answer honestly." You pause, letting the suffocating dread linger, watching their carefully constructed professional armors tremble at the foundations. "Reflecting on your time working here, under my supervision—what are your thoughts?"

The silence that follows is absolute, deafening. The HVAC hums like a deranged insect. Momo is the first to break it. She draws a slow, deliberate breath, her gaze fixed on a point just past your shoulder, her voice low but astonishingly steady. It lacks its usual polished smoothness; it’s raw, scraped clean.

"Honestly, Director?" she starts. The corporate veneer cracks, revealing the woman beneath—the one who unraveled on your desk, the one whose control shattered into breathless pleas. "Before—recent developments—" A faint flush creeps up her neck. "You were—different. From the others. From your father." 

She meets your eyes, and their intensity is frightening. "You saw us. Not as assets. Not just cogs. You shielded us from the worst of the corporate savagery. Cancelled unnecessary overtime. Fought back against unreasonable demands from upstairs, even when it put you at risk." Her voice drops to a near whisper. "You treated us with kindness. Consideration. Respect. Graciousness, even, when we knew you carried burdens we couldn’t fathom." 

She swallows hard. "Working for you, it was more than a job. It felt like—a partnership. A rarity in this business. That you would fight to keep both of us, against impossible orders—" Her voice finally wavers, thick with emotion she ruthlessly tries to suppress. "It speaks volumes about the man you are. Or—the man you try to be. Despite everything,  I have no regrets. None."

Her words hang, stark and powerful, cutting through the sterile air. The confession of respect, the acknowledgment of the kindnesses you thought went unnoticed—it lands like a sharp blow, far heavier than any accusation. You see the echo of vulnerability in her eyes, the same look she had buttoning her blouse back together.

Kazuha shifts in her chair. The shock has morphed into something stronger, brighter. Her gaze burns into you. "Momo-san’s right," she states, regaining her unmistakable energy, but stripped of its usual playful edge. It’s pure, passionate honesty. "You were different. Are different. Not only did you avoid delegating the grunt work; you trusted us with real responsibility. You listened. Actually listened to our ideas, even the crazy ones." 

A shade of her trademark smile touches her lips, fleeting and poignant. "You made this soul-crushing tower feel—human, sometimes. And yeah, the circumstances forcing one of us out are absolute bullshit. Extraordinary doesn’t even cover it. But the fact you’re even trying to fight it? That you’d risk your own neck for us?" 

She leans forward, her eyes lit with a fiery glow. "That tells us everything, boss. How much you actually cherish what we built here. Together. All three of us." She holds your gaze, her countenance steadfast. "No regrets. Not a single one. Even—" She glances almost imperceptibly towards the desk, then back to you, a complex mix of defiance and something softer in her eyes. "Even with everything else. The core of it? That respect, that kindness? That was real. That’s what matters. So thank you. Thank you for being a great leader to us."

Their words resonate in the hollow space of the office, a counterpoint to the cold hum of machinery and your father’s relentless choose, choose, choose. The guilt you’ve carried—for exploiting Momo’s surrender, for succumbing to Kazuha’s demand—twists deeper, tangled now with a profound, aching gratitude. They saw the flicker of humanity you tried to maintain amidst the madness. They valued it. They’re telling you they cherished it, even now, facing the axe.

The suffocating dread fades, replaced by a surge of fierce, protective resolve. You push back from the desk, the motion decisive.

"Okay." The single word rings heavy with finality and newfound purpose. "Policy be damned. Sentiment be damned." 

A faint, determined smile touches your lips, the first genuine one in days. "My father wants streamlined efficiency? Fine. We’ll give him efficiency. But we’ll redefine it."

Both women straighten, their postures snapping from resignation to alert readiness. Their competitive fire hasn’t vanished—it simmers beneath the surface, redirected.

"You," you point to Momo, then Kazuha. "And you. Together. Your task: Create a proposal. Not for him to choose one of you." 

Leaning forward, your gaze sweeps between them, capturing their fierce intelligence, their complementary strengths. The synergy that claimed this building as yours. "Make the strongest, most irrefutable argument for why he cannot afford to lose either of you. Why this 'streamlining' is catastrophic inefficiency disguised as cost-cutting. Why this pairing," you gesture between them, a finger deliberately pointed at each woman, "isn't just valuable, but irreplaceable. Synergy quantified. Impact measured. The cost of replacement—not just monetary, but in lost momentum, institutional knowledge, catastrophic risk. Make it bulletproof. Make it undeniable. Make him understand that letting one go isn't saving money; it's self-destructing the foundation of East Asian operations right before he leaves it to sink or swim."

A spark ignites in Momo’s eyes—the strategist presented with the ultimate challenge. Kazuha’s grin returns, wide and predatory, aglow with the thrill of the impossible pitch. The air crackles again, but differently now. Not with dread or competition, but with singular, collaborative energy.

"Consider it done, Director," Momo states, her voice regaining its terrifying, precise efficiency. She’s already pulling out her tablet, fingers flying.

"Bulletproof? Undeniable?" Kazuha chirps, grabbing her own sleek device, her eyes already scanning invisible data streams. "Challenge accepted. We’ll make him wish he’d thought of it himself." 

She winks, the gesture devoid of flirtation, brimming with cutthroat zeal aimed squarely at the absent CEO. "Where do we work?"

"Right here," you say, motioning to the expanse of your desk—the site of both corporate tedium and devastating intimacy. "Use whatever you need. Access all files, all metrics. I want a draft before lunch."

They don't need telling twice. In moments, the mahogany desk transforms. Momo’s tablet displays complex organizational charts, efficiency metrics, risk assessment frameworks. Kazuha projects market analysis, client retention data, timelines highlighting interdependencies. Their voices, once clashing in competitive yapping and immoral seduction, now weave together in a low, intense symphony of collaboration.

—————

The air in your office crackles, thick with the chill from the large video screen and the lingering ghosts of desperation. Dad’s face dominates the display, sharper and colder than the Seoul skyline behind him. His New York office backdrop is a void of empty darkness and indifferent buildings. His eyes, chips of glacial ice, sweep over the three of you standing rigidly before your own camera: you flanked by Momo and Kazuha, a united front forged in the crucible of the impossible.

Silence. Thick, heavy, oppressive. Dad’s expression remains granite. No flicker. No twitch. The only sound is the low hum of the climate control and the relentless beating of your own heart against your chest. You feel Kazuha’s subtle shift of weight beside you, as well as Momo’s unnerving stillness. 

This was the hail mary. The one-in-a-billion shot. 

Dad’s gaze drifts from the screen displaying Davies’ praise back to the three of you. It lingers. A fraction of a second longer than usual. Then, a slow, deliberate blink. His lips, thin and bloodless, part.

"Commendable," he remarks, the word dry but lacking its usual razor edge. "The level of detail. The quantification of impact." He pauses, fixing his steely eyes on you. "Davies spoke highly of the presentation. Exceptionally so. He mentioned Miss Nakamura’s articulation specifically. That carries weight."

Another pause, stretching the silence taut. You feel Momo’s knuckles brush against yours behind the cover of the desk—a fleeting, electric contact of shared, desperate hope.

"The policy," Dad continues, his voice regaining its ironclad edge, "mandates streamlining. A single chain of command." He leans fractionally closer to his camera, his face filling your screen, the lines around his eyes deepening. "But policy serves the bottom line. Sentiment is inefficient. Catastrophic inefficiency, however, as you've quantified, is unacceptable."

The decision, when it comes, is delivered with brutal simplicity. He straightens, taking a prolonged glance at each woman.

"The proposal is accepted. Miss Hirai Momo and Nakamura Kazuha: you are both promoted to Executive Assistant, reporting directly to the Regional Director, effective immediately. Your compensation will be adjusted accordingly. Consolidate your functions as outlined. Ensure the projected losses do not materialize."

Relief hits you like a physical wave. Intense enough to buckle your knees. Momo’s breath escapes in a near-silent sigh beside you. Kazuha’s shoulders, held rigid, drop a fraction of an inch.

"Son," Dad’s gaze shifts back to you, pinning you in place. "This level of strategic pushback—it’s a step. A necessary one." The faintest hint of something—not warmth, but perhaps grudging acknowledgment—flickers in his icy eyes. "You have a long way to go. The CEO chair demands more than protecting assets, however irreplaceable. It demands vision beyond sentiment and beyond mere survival. Remember that. Otherwise, you have made quite the first impression in your new position, with what little time you have been given so far. You have potential." 

His gaze sweeps over all three of you one final time. "Do not squander this opportunity. Report progress weekly. Directly."

The screen goes abruptly dark. The oppressive silence of the call is replaced by the stunned, heavy calm of your office. The hum of the HVAC is suddenly deafening.

For three heartbeats, no one moves. The professional facades—Momo’s icy control, Kazuha’s bright energy, your own weary directorship—hang suspended, fragile as glass.

Then, Kazuha lets out a choked sound, half-laugh, half-sob, clapping a hand over her mouth. Her eyes are wide, shimmering with unshed tears of sheer, disbelieving relief. She voices out your collective thought: "We—we did it?"

Momo turns slowly. Her usual impassive mask breaks. Raw emotion floods her face—profound relief, exhaustion, and something vehemently proud. 

"We did," she confirms, trembling slightly. Her gaze meets yours, then Kazuha’s. A single tear escapes, tracing a path through her perfectly applied makeup before she swiftly brushes it away, a gesture more of habit than shame. 

The crushing weight of the past days—the dread, the guilt, the impossible choice, the feverish pitch of their competition and the devastating intimacy it spawned—it all disappears in an instant. In its place, a surge of pure, unadulterated pride fills your chest. You look at them: Momo, slightly flushed, her composure regained but her eyes still bright; Kazuha, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet, radiating exhilarated energy.

"This," you manage, rough with charged emotion, clearing your throat. "This is your finest work, bar none. Henderson, Davies—they were impressive. But this—" You gesture at the space where Dad’s face had been, then sweep your hand to encompass the three of you. "This was masterful. Irrefutable. You saved yourselves. You saved us."

Kazuha beams, the force of it lighting up the room. "Team effort, boss! Couldn't have done it without Momo-san's terrifying spreadsheets and your—well, your neck on the line!"

Momo inclines her head, a genuine, if small, smile touching her lips. "The core argument stemmed from demonstrable truth, Director. Our synergy is the efficiency." She pauses, then adds, softer, "And your willingness to defy policy made presenting it possible."

The shared victory, the palpable relief, hangs in the air, thick and sweet. Pent-up tension fades away, leaving a buzzing energy in its wake.

"So," Kazuha chirps, her eyes gleaming with mischief now that the immediate threat is gone. "Promotion calls for celebration, right? Like, serious celebration.” Already has some ideas in mind, as predicted. “Champagne? Kobe beef? That ridiculously expensive place with the view?"

Momo nods, her smile widening a fraction. "An appropriate acknowledgment of the achievement. And the avoidance of catastrophic loss."

Your own weariness is momentarily forgotten, replaced by a giddy lightness. "Done. Finest dinner in Seoul. Bill’s on me. Consider it hazard pay for surviving the last 72 hours." You gesture expansively. "Name the place. Tonight."

Kazuha and Momo exchange a look—a silent, complex communication that passes between them, forged in competition, solidified in collaboration, and now—something else. Something dangerous. Kazuha’s grin turns wicked, predatory. Momo’s eyes hold a dark, knowing glint as she meets your gaze directly, her professional armor fully shed.

"Oh, we’ll pick the place, Director," Kazuha purrs, stepping closer, her voice dropping to an intimate murmur. She reaches out, not for a handshake, but to gently straighten your already perfectly aligned tie, her fingers lingering near the collar. "Somewhere—discreet. Somewhere with an excellent private room."

Momo moves to your other side, her presence a warm, solid pressure. Her hand rests lightly on your forearm, a touch that sends a familiar jolt through you, echoing Tuesday morning’s intensity but devoid of its desperate edge. Her voice, when she speaks, is a low, velvet promise that resonates deep in your bones. "And we fully intend," she adds, her dark eyes holding yours with unnerving intensity, a faint, knowing smile playing on her lips, "to share far more than just the food tonight."

Their combined gaze—Kazuha’s playful challenge, Momo’s smoldering promise—pins you in place. The air crackles anew, not with corporate tension or competitive fire, but with the electric hum of anticipation, intimacy, and the uncharted territory of a hard-won victory and a celebration promised to be anything but professional. The mahogany desk, witness to so much, seems to hold its breath. 

The game has changed. Irrevocably. And the night ahead promises to be the most perilous, exhilarating performance review yet.

—————

(A/N: Thank you for the commission! This is what happens when you get carried away with a story and have all the free time in the world. Longest fic by an ungodly margin, please God don't do this to me again. Editing is fucking hard. lol. The prompt was pretty good, thought the unique element of having a privileged son and a senior/junior dynamic that ultimately went off the rails. Again, I definitely focused way too much on the plot, it was too good not to. Thank you for reading!)

[thelastdrop]

Translate - Part 2

You steal glances at her from across the venue. 

Sometimes a passing waiter or attendee blocks your line of sight; sometimes another copied-and-pasted investor steps in between you, hand extended, wishing to introduce him or herself; sometimes the woman next to you steals your attention, usually with a laugh that sounds like music in the cool Seoul evening.

The woman next to you is Taeyeon Kim - Vice President, Strategy, 2024-present and also ex-girlfriend, 2018-2021 - but tonight she’s a celebrity, investors and staff members and junior analysts alike all clambering over themselves for a moment of her time, for the opportunity to introduce themselves to the brightest star in the industry. She looks like one too, in her smoky eyeshadow and little black dress with its daringly low cut and short hem, wrapped almost too tightly around a slim body that is thirty-six but looks a decade younger.

Taeyeon laughs, smiles, and places her hand affectionately on the shoulders and forearms of colleague and investor and intern alike when they make a joke or interesting anecdote. She’s magnetic, almost, the way she draws the entire gala to her. She knows how to play a crowd, and is all smiles, a definite contrast from the cold, calculating businesswoman she was during the day. She knows what mask to wear and when - experience hard won by long years in the corporate world.

But on this night, her charms are only half-effective on you. You stand next to her and laugh and smile along with the crowd but most of your attention, when it is freed from nosy colleagues and investors, is focused not on the charming Vice President but on the lonely Marketing Lead across the venue. 

Ryujin Shin takes short sips from one of the two champagne flutes present on her stand-up table. She talks softly to Yuna, who is standing next to her. There is a blank expression on her face, unreadable. Every now and then she forces a smile. Yuna reaches out and squeezes her wrist, as though to comfort her. Not once does Ryujin lift her eyes to even glance in your direction.

She is not more than a hundred metres away but she may as well have been on the other side of the city. With Korean being amongst the half-dozen languages Taeyeon was fluent in, there was no need for a translator as she holds court with the Korean and international investors surrounding her.

“...rumor has it that she runs a small sushi joint in Vancouver, and just had a kid. She had him and her father at gunpoint, and the Senior VP convinced the cops to let her go! Crazy story, isn’t it?”

A hand, hers, grasps your arm. You turn to find Taeyeon looking at you, eyes expectant.

“Crazy,” you stammer, catching on quickly. “I still don’t believe any of it actually happened.”

Taeyeon smiles a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, which are still locked on yours. “Anyway,” she continues, turning to the crowd gathered around your table listening intently to her every word. “He’s married to another Senior Vice President now - his former colleague. And she’s pregnant. Not sure what he’s up to. Maybe he’s off on some new daring corporate adventure involving car chases and the Tokyo PD?”

The crowd oohs and aahs at Taeyeon’s story - some with a slight delay as the Vice President translates it into flawless Korean, the foreign language giving her voice a pleasant, melodic tone. She continues to work the crowd. For a moment you listen, and for a moment you see why they were so enraptured by her. For a moment you remember why you-

-your phone vibrates. You reach into your pocket to retrieve it, finding a message from Ryujin. She tells you that she’s going to call it a night and head back to the hotel first. She reminds you of your early flight to Tokyo the next morning.

She says she’ll meet you in the lobby of the hotel at 7am.

You turn your gaze to her table to find her, but she’s gone. Her empty champagne flute sits on the table next to the one she never got the chance to give you.

---

Taeyeon made for an exercise in material contrasts - her tight, tiny black Prada dress beneath the cheap suit jacket you’d draped across her shoulders to ward against an evening chill you weren’t sure was actually there; the glint of the Cartier watch on her wrist as she poured cheap, convenience store soju into two paper cups; the 1,000 won lighter she held in her thin, slim fingers to light the artisanal cigarette she plucked from a slim titanium case in her purse.

She takes a long drag. When the smoke leaves her nose it almost clings to her. She wears it as much as she wears her dress, or the suit jacket of yours she was currently swimming in. Like the smoke she’s ephemeral, ethereal, beautiful - but her presence stung when you breathed her in. 

You’d left Vancouver on good terms with her - warm, friendly, joking - but something about her surprise appearance tonight, and what it might have meant, rubbed you the wrong way.

“You two together now?” she asks, voice flat and direct, now that the melodic charm of the social gathering was no longer needed in her words.

On the bench next to her, you look away with a scoff. You knew who she was referring to, even if she never said her name. You bend forward, elbows on your knees, hands clasped together. You play with your thumbs and rub your nails, as though you could wring an answer from between your fingers.

“What’s her name again? Soojin? Yujin?” she continues.

You shake your head. A smile with no warmth in it bends the corners of your lips. The gall of this woman.

“Ryujin,” you state, firmly.

“Hmm,” she murmurs, giving Ryujin’s name as much attention as the ash she flicks off the end of her cigarette, as though it were beneath her somehow. She takes another drag, leaves another layer of smoke floating between you filled with all the words you’ve never said to each other. “Are you two… real?”

You don’t look up at her. The faux-smile leaves your lips.

“I’m not sure,” you answer, slowly. “But I want to find out,” you add, hoping that it would send her a message.

A few moments of silence. Taeyeon takes one of the paper cups and downs her shot. You do the same, before re-filling both of them. Neither of you look at each other. The alcohol does nothing to ease the tension between you.

“You’re never sure about anything,” Taeyeon says, softly. 

Her words trigger you - more than she did when she showed up unannounced at the event, more than when she forgot Ryujin’s name, more than she did when she slid her hand into yours as you both left the event in full view of your colleagues. 

You stand up, suddenly angry, suddenly upset. The words rush to your mouth and leave your lips before you even know you’re saying them. “I was sure about you.”

---

Friday, May 14th, 2021. 8:19pm.

She’s twenty-six again. Still beautiful - but in a bright, fresh-faced way. The kind of beauty that is found only in youth, in the features of a young woman yet to be truly hardened by the realities of life.

An image of her flashes on the screen of your phone as it lies on the table. She’s wearing a cheap Uniqlo sundress and the oversized circular eyeglasses she needed because she was blind as a bat before the Lasik surgery she’d get years later after a promotion. A cheap silver ring you’d bought her hours before from an artisanal market - a pre-engagement ring, she’d called it - glimmers on her left ring finger as she waves awkwardly at you, the photographer.

She’s in London, in front of Big Ben, where you’d both been sent on your first overseas business trip together. She wasn’t ready for the picture and has an odd, crooked smile on her face. You remembered her protests when you set it as her contact picture, insisting you replace it with a better one, perhaps one of the two of you together - but you kept it nonetheless, partially because you wanted to tease her about it, and partially because the picture reminded you of your first few weeks together. 

You were in love with her - there was no mistaking it. It was there in the way your heart leapt when she walked in the door of your apartment, there in the way you brushed hair from her face as she snored fitfully next to you, there in the way you made her coffee as she rushed out the door in the morning and a quick dinner when she got home late at night.

It’s still there now, as you pick up the phone and raise it to your ear.

“Hello?” you answer.

“Baby,” she says, stress already apparent in the way she said it. “Another long night for me today. I’m so sorry.”

You sigh, a sharp exhalation from your nose. You feel a sharp pain in your chest - not physical, no, another kind of pain, the kind that leaves you feeling empty.

“When will you-”

“I don’t know,” she answers, before you can even finish. In the background of the call, members of her team mumble. Someone is clacking away entirely too loudly at a keyboard. A voice is speaking sternly in Japanese. “I’ll get home as soon as I can,” she continues amidst the din of the busy office behind her, “but… you shouldn’t wait up.”

Your eyes drift closed. The pang of pain in your chest was becoming all too familiar. It started with her taking phone calls and drafting emails during meals, before escalating to missing dinners and forgetting important dates. Work had always been important to Taeyeon, but these days it had consumed her - and your relationship. Nights like these were becoming common. 

You loved her, still loved her, even when those lonely nights became lonely months. Your head tilts back. A headache begins to form in the front of your skull, and love could only dull so much of it.

She must’ve heard the sigh that leaves your lips.

“I’m sorry,” she repeats. “So, so sorry. But Hirai’s on my ass and you know how she is if I don’t meet these deadlines. If I want to make director I need to-”

“I know, Taeyeon,” you say, the words leaving your lips in another sigh. “I know.”

A few moments of silence pass. The background murmur continues on her side of the call, filling the line with ambient noise, but the silence between you is deafening.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, but the sound of paper shuffling and a keyboard being typed upon tells you her apology is half-hearted. A warm rush of anger pulses in your chest.

“So am I.”

You hang up. You stand and leave your table, apologizing to the waitress as you leave and making up some excuse about how your date had become ill and couldn’t make it.

Taeyeon finally arrives at your apartment at 2:21am. When you both wake the next day an argument begins. When she storms out of your apartment at 1:15pm, she leaves her ring behind on the kitchen counter.

---

In the present, your words create the slightest quiver in Taeyeon’s lip, but she hides it by bringing her cigarette, by now almost a stub, to her mouth. She takes a last drag before crushing it beneath a Prada heel.

“Send her ahead,” she begins, reaching for the paper cup of soju and cradling it with both hands as though it were something precious and not cheap convenience store liquor. “Send her ahead to Tokyo and tell her you’ll follow her later in the week. I’m here for three days. You can stay with me.”

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. The sheer audacity was hilarious, in a way.

“Why, Taeyeon?” you snap, finally looking at her for the first time, “so you and I can spend a couple of days drinking and fucking in your suite?” 

Her eyes meet yours for the first time, and there is ice in them.

“Is that so different from what you’ve been doing with your translator?”

Your hands ball into fists. You want to snap, shout and yell at her.

“Her name is Ryujin,” you snarl. 

“I wasn’t sure then,” she replies, not sparing Ryujin’s name even a scrap of her attention as she returns her attention to the soju in her cup. She smoothly downs the shot, before pouring herself another, ice in her veins. “But I’m sure now.”

“About what?”

“About us.”

The anger pulsing through your chest explodes into something dark, something ugly.

“No,” you spit, taking a step toward her. “Fucking no, Taeyeon. You’re fucking hilarious, you know that? You walked out on us. You ended us, and managed to sucker me into staying friends. I leave Vancouver making jokes like we’re two best buds, then you show up out of the blue wanting to get back together after seeing me with another girl? Please, Taeyeon.”

Taeyeon’s lips purse into a grim line. She looks away. Her silence spurs you, gives you license to vent your anger.

“You don’t get to just have me again now that you’re done climbing the corporate ladder and can spare some free time in your Outlook calendar for a boyfriend,” you state, words leaving your mouth with the intention of hurting. “And you sure as hell don’t get to have me again just because you’re fucking jealous.”

You don’t take any pleasure in the way her eyes close, the way she flinches and turns her head as though you’d slapped her across the cheek.

“You’re right,” she admits, softly, the tiniest hint of a tremble in her voice. Her head is lowered, as though she were speaking to the concrete beneath her thousand dollar heels. “You’re right. I fucked things up when we were together. We broke up because of me.”

She takes her last shot of soju before standing, crumpling her cup in her hand and dropping it next to the full shot you never took. She slips your suit jacket from her shoulders, carefully folding it lengthwise. In the chilly Seoul evening, clothed with little more than a scrap of silk and wisps of smoke, she suddenly looks very small.

The look on her face as she steps close to you is carved from ice - but her eyes glisten, and her lip trembles.

“But maybe,” she begins, “-maybe it took me seeing you with her before I realized how badly I fucked up by letting you go. Maybe I needed to see it to make me realize how badly I need you. How badly I’ve always needed you.”

Words fail you, and you can do nothing but accept your suit jacket. Anger, pain, some small lingering remnant of your feelings for her - it all warred within you, and none of them dominated long enough to manifest into words.

She presses your suit jacket against your chest, and for a moment she’s the twenty-six year old version of her again, standing in front of Big Ben with her phone in your hand, asking you to take a photo of her.

“Go to her,” she continues. Her eyes bore into yours, searching, even if you could tell that there were tears behind them being held there by the force of her will. “Fuck her. Love her, if you do. But if… when she fucks up-”

“Taeyeon,” you say, resistant but helpless.

“-I’m here,” she finishes.

You watch, helplessly, as she turns and begins to walk to the curb, where the sleek black sedan that picked you both up from the event has been waiting the entire time. Its driver notices her approaching and exits the car to open the back door for her. She steps inside without looking back. 

The car pulls away from the curb, leaving you alone.

---

Ryujin is in the hotel lobby when you see her next, leaning on the extended handle of her luggage with one hand and scrolling her phone with the other. She is dressed casually, in a sleeveless white button-up that hugs her slim figure and rimless, oversized glasses.

“Ryujin,” you say, approaching her, cautiously. You’d thought of texting or calling her last night when you got back to the hotel, but by then it was in the early hours of the morning and you didn’t want to disturb her. You’d spent the next few hours tossing and turning, processing what had happened between you and Taeyeon and doing what you could to prepare yourself for this moment.

Would she be upset? Would she be furious at you for having ditched her for your boss, who just happened to be your ex-girlfriend? Would she not care at all? Would she-

“Did you fuck her?” she asks, not bothering to look up from her phone.

Her question catches you off guard. You hadn’t expected her to be so straightforward, although in retrospect she was nothing if not that.

“No,” you reply. Ryujin locks her phone and tosses it into her pocket.

“She still loves you,” she says. She turns to look up at you for the first time and while she clearly tried her best to hide it with makeup and glasses you’d never seen her wear before, the dark rings beneath her eyes betray the similarly sleepless night she’d had.

There is an awkward pause that stretches out for far longer than either of you were comfortable with. But you weren’t sure how to answer. You knew that Taeyeon still loved you - she’d more or less confessed as much last night - but what were you supposed to say?

“The way she looks at you…” Ryujin continues, her eyes straying to the handle of her luggage as she fidgets with the button that retracts the handle. “Do you still have feelings for her?”

The answer comes quickly. Quicker, you realize, that you thought it would.

“No.”

There is a short pause. Ryujin’s eyes find yours again. Her look disarms you. You can feel her look past your own eyes and into your soul.

“Do you still want to be with me?” she asks, firmly.

“Yes, Ryujin,” you answer. The words came quickly, but you meant them - and last night with Taeyeon convinced you of it. “More than ever.”

Another few moments pass. Behind her glasses Ryujin’s eyes search yours for any hint of deceit. There is the slightest quiver in her lip, as though she wants to say more.

In the end, she gives you a small nod. She considers the feelings and thoughts running through her head - suspicion, confrontation, anger - but chooses none. She chooses to trust.

“Okay,” she says, finally, before taking your hand in hers and heading to the airport.

---

“Do I… taste like her?”

She squirms and writhes under you. You hold her down with a palm on her core. You feel the toned muscles beneath your hand flex and tense as she struggles atop the bed.

“Better,” you hiss into her inner thigh. She’s slick and wet on your tongue, lips, and chin. You close your lips around her clit again. Inside her, your fingers arc upward, and her back arches off the bed as if to mirror your movements.

“Fuck, Daddy-”

“Mmmmph,” you mumble against her clit. The vibrations send another pulse of pleasure up her spine. She’s right there, right on the verge, right on the edge. 

Only five minutes have passed since you both entered your Tokyo hotel suite. She wouldn’t make it past minute seven before her first orgasm.

She goes almost rigid on the bed, back arched in such a way that causes her small, round breasts to jut forward and out. One of her hands claws at the sheets and the other digs sharp furrows into your scalp, but you keep going - mercilessly - and soon she’s cumming on your tongue.

Her voice cuts out mid-moan. Her nails are spikes digging painfully into your skull. Her cunt spasms around your fingers. She drenches your tongue, mouth, and chin in her juices.

Eventually her back lowers tenderly back onto the mattress, and her nails retreat from the painful, reddened scratches they leave on your scalp. You give her trembling clit a few more tender licks, before pressing your lips against it in a soft kiss. Your fingers slide out of her cunt, saturated and glistening with her.

You raise your face from between her legs and find her watching you, cheeks flushed, hair messy around her face. She trembles and quivers, as though her orgasm had taken everything solid out of her and turned her into jelly. She reaches down with both hands on either side of your face and you rise from between her legs. She pulls you to her face.

You kiss - her tongue quickly slipping between your wet, slick lips and chin to taste herself on you. Her lips leave yours and you feel her lick her own juices off your face.

“Come fuck me, then,” she hisses, eyes boring into yours - needy, vulnerable, raw. “Forget her.”

Without breaking eye contact you reach down with one hand to pull your pants the rest of the way down your hips - she hadn’t gotten far in undressing you before you’d pushed her onto the bed and started devouring her. Your cock springs free, hard and hungry.

You slide inside her in one swift thrust that punches the air from both of your lungs. 

You’d fucked her dozens of times by now in the two weeks you’d been together. But this one felt different, meant more. The other times had been about claiming and ownership - this one was about affirmation.

She is slick and wet and tight. Her legs wrap themselves around your hips, heels - with her socks still on - digging into your lower back.

Without knowing it you’d closed your eyes, the feeling of sinking into her tight little cunt shutting them involuntarily - but her hand on your cheek causes you to open them. 

Her eyes are wide, flushed with pleasure but glassy with emotion. They stare up at you and there is nothing there but naked need - no games, no hidden meanings. She needs you, both for pleasure, lust, and validation.

“Look at me,” she begins, although you already were. Perhaps she wanted you to see more than what your eyes were showing you.

“Ryujin…”

“I… I-” she continues, voice a light hiss. Her cunt pulsates around you as she squeezes you tight. “Me. All of me. This pussy. This is what you want.”

You slide out of her half way, before her heels on your lower back pull you back inside her. You both let a gasp escape your lips before you slide back out and soon you’re fucking her slowly, the both of you feeling and savoring every entry and exit.

Ryujin grasps your right wrist, pulls it down between your bodies. She places your palm flat against her lower stomach, right above the neatly trimmed patch of hair above her cunt.

“See how I… See how I take you? How I need you?”

You gasp. She holds your gaze throughout it all, through every sigh and moan and gasp, even as the pleasure overtaking her brain causes her eyelids to quiver but never truly shut.

“Feel how tight I am for you,” she continues as the pleasure builds. Her brow furrows, as though she is worried about something. Her eyes are needy now, wanton, as your cock continues to drill in and out of her.

“So fucking tight, Ryujin,” you say through gritted teeth. “Always so fucking tight for me.”

For the first time her eyes shut as her neck arches, casting her head back for a moment, mouth open in a silent moan, as a particularly deep thrust steals the sound from her lips. Her back arches off the sweat-soaked mattress. Her hips move against yours, meeting your every movement. Her body does everything it can to increase the warm, hot pleasure building between you. 

Her eyes find yours again. 

“Feel how wet I am, Daddy?” she continues, the words leaving her lips half-moan. “So wet around your cock. You’re stretching me out. I’m your good little girl, your good little fucktoy. So wet, wetter than-”

“Ryujin-”

“Just fuck me, Daddy,” she spits, interrupting. Her eyes open fully, staring, re-energized by lust and an emotion that was closer to jealousy and anger than she’d ever admit. “Just fuck me. You’re my Daddy, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Ryujin. Fuck, you feel so good-”

“Mine,” she hisses. “Mine, only mine.”

Her eyes are too much to take. It was all too much - her body, her cunt, the words leaving her mouth - all too much. You break eye contact, eyes shutting out of some involuntary defensive response. You bring your head next to hers and hiss in to her ear-

“I’m yours, Ryujin. Only yours.”

“I’m yours too,” she repeats, and she says your name - no title, no pet name, your first name - and it leaves her lips in a soft, wistful moan, directly into your ear. You think, for a moment, that she’s crying.

You sigh into her neck. She is close again, and so are you. Her cunt tightens. Your cock stiffens even further, and you feel that telltale tingle at the base of your shaft that tells you this beautiful, terrifyingly intimate moment is nearing its end. Too quickly. Too soon. You want it to last-

“Deeper, Daddy, please,” she sighs. “You’re mine, right? Cum inside me, breed me, make me yours-”

You tear your face from her neck, propping yourself up on your knees for a moment. She whimpers at the loss of your closeness, but only until you hook your forearms beneath her knees and lean forward planting your hands flat on either side of her head. Her knees brush against her breasts. You fold her in half. 

You fuck her deep, as deep as you can.

There are no words now, because you’d both already spoken them, and because the pleasure nearing its boiling point within both of your bodies has robbed you both of the mental capacity needed to form them. You fuck Ryujin Shin deep and hard because she is the only thing that exists, the only thing that matters.

She is yours. You are hers.

Every thrust brings you closer and closer to that edge, the same one you want to reach but don’t really because it would mean the end and suddenly you tumbling, falling uncontrollably over it and the fall from that edge is all, everything.

You bury yourself as deep as you can inside her and fill her cunt with long, thick streams of warm semen. The feel of your cum pooling inside her triggers her own orgasm, and you become two moaning, sighing bodies, bound and glued together by the wet slickness between you.

When your eyes open some time later your forehead is pressed to hers. Her eyes flutter open. There is a vulnerability there that you hadn’t ever seen in them before. Her hand finds your cheek, holds you close, as though afraid you would leave.

Her lips tremble, but eventually turns into a soft, warm smile. 

“I’m yours. And you’re mine,” she says, claiming, as though she’d pulled the sentiment directly from your heart and turned it into words.

---

“...Honda Hitomi, Marketing Lead. Yabuki Nako, Legal Counsel. And Uchinaga Aeri, HR Lead. They’re all looking forward to working with you.” Each of the Tokyo office’s leads turn sharply in your direction as their name is called, offering you a polite bow and what you assume to be a basic corporate-approved greeting. A slim smile perks up the corner of your lips as you realize Ryujin didn’t bother to translate the greetings until the very last one.

There is an awkward pause as all eyes turn to the two empty seats at the head of the table. Several of the Tokyo team members fidget awkwardly.

Just when you are about to ask Ryujin to inquire as to where the two missing members are, the large double doors behind you burst open.

Framed by the stark light of the hallway are two figures - one a tall, slim woman with straight hair, a perfectly tailored pantsuit, and ramrod-straight posture. The other, judging by her unkempt neon pink hair and ill-fitting blazer and pencil skirt, had just rolled out of bed.

The tall woman bows sharply, her waist bending easily at an exact ninety degrees. The pink-haired girl, seeing her colleague bowing, lets out a scoff out of her nose before also offering a bow that was neither as deep nor as precise. The loses her balance for a moment as she bows a little too deeply and has to right herself.

Head still bowed, the taller woman speaks quickly and sternly in Japanese. Ryujin, translating at your shoulder, explains that the pink-haired woman had slept in and had to be dragged out of bed. She offers her sincere apologies on behalf of herself and her colleague.

Without further word, the two women make their way to the two empty seats. The tall woman moves with the poise of a ballerina and the precision of a soldier, clutching her tablet like her issued rifle; the shorter, pink-haired woman moves with the sluggishness of a newly-turned zombie. Like the rest of the Tokyo team before them, they introduce themselves.

“She’s Nakamura Kazuha, Associate Director and Operations Lead,” Ryujin says softly at your shoulder. “The pink-haired one is Miyawaki Sakura, Director of the Tokyo office.”

Sakura’s name rings a bell - one you’d heard from the stories. You turn to Ryujin. “Is she-?”

“Yeah. It’s her. She was former Tokyo PD, If you can believe it. One of the SVPs brought her into the company two years ago.”

Kazuha offers the same corporate greeting as the others, delivered with another crisp bow; Sakura gives you a wink and shoots you a finger gun before quite literally falling into her leather chair. You watch as she reaches into her blazer’s chest pocket to retrieve what was clearly and obviously a Nintendo Switch, which she places none-too-discreetly beneath the folder of briefing papers on the conference table.

Kazuha marches, swiftly and precisely, to the podium at the front of the room. The light in the conference room dims as the projector throws the title slide of her presentation against the wall. 

Out of the corner of your eyes, you watch as Sakura stands her briefing folder up in front of her like a makeshift wall. You could’ve sworn you hear a certain handheld console’s startup chime not soon after.

On the screen, a different chime heralds Taeyeon’s arrival into the meeting. From her hotel room in Seoul, she waves a good morning greeting to everyone in Tokyo. The smile on her lips is proper, precise, and calculated. 

Taeyeon is wearing the oversized circular glasses she wore a decade ago - a message sent only to you.

---

The meeting is mostly introductory, surface-level fluff on the Tokyo office’s last financial year. Kazuha leads most of it from her podium at the front of the room, every gesture and sentence measured and precise. Her tone is matter-of-fact, without any attention spared to personal anecdotes or jokes to shake things up or lighten the mood. Even without Ryujin’s whispered translations in your ear, you could tell that the young woman was all business, all the time, and essentially ran the entire Tokyo office on her own, despite technically being one spot from the top in the office hierarchy.

She made for a stark contrast to the actual Director of the Tokyo office, who spent almost the entire meeting engrossed in whatever game she was playing on her Switch. 

Kazuha pays her boss’ disinterest in statistics no heed as she continues her presentation. Taeyeon, from a thousand kilometers away, interrupts her with a question in perfect Japanese. Kazuha is shaken for only a moment before informing Taeyeon that yes, the Q4 results did in fact take into account the company’s recent supply chain changes in Seoul.

Taeyeon listens intently to the younger woman’s answer, a measured look on her face - a predator sizing up prey. The Vice President asks a series of pressing questions, and for the first time the young Associate Director appears frazzled, shuffling her papers at the podium awkwardly as she frantically searches for answers amidst them.

“A 13.4% dip in profit from the Tokyo office is a disappointing result,” Taeyeon continues, arms crossing in the way it did when she smelled blood in the water. “One that may call into question the competency of your office’s logistics and leadership team.”

Ryujin translates the interrogation from Japanese into English with an even, calm tone - but out of the corner of your eye, you watch as her grip tightens around her pen.

Kazuha scrambles for a response. You glare up at Taeyeon’s image in the corner of the projection - some mixture of disappointment and anger flaring up in your chest. 

This was unnecessary. You saw why Taeyeon was pressing her - the Vice President of Strategy doing things a Vice President of Strategy should do - but this was neither the time nor the place; there was no need to put the younger woman on the spot and embarrass her in front of her subordinates and colleagues the way she was doing. 

A part of you wonders if she was doing it because she knew you and Ryujin were in the room. You are moments from turning to Ryujin and having her translate an interjection when-

“Recent tax-related developments in international trade have introduced some unforeseen obstacles to meeting our Q4 goals,” comes a clear voice, suddenly, in perfect English - Sakura’s. “In addition, we’ve experienced considerable difficulties in our transportation chain between Osaka and Tokyo, which have resulted in lesser than expected stock levels and a corresponding dip in revenue.”

On the Tokyo Director’s face is a look of intensity you hadn’t seen before, one that you had no idea she was even capable of. She makes a show of pausing her game before continuing, as if having to actually participate in the meeting was somehow offensive to her. Neither her hands nor her eyes leave the poorly-hidden handheld. 

“The goals set for this financial year by your Strategy department were exceedingly optimistic, Miss Vice President,” Sakura continues, tone carrying a slight edge beneath the thin veil of corporate jargon. “-And my team did our best to meet them, but fell just short due to forces beyond our control. We have several initiatives in our pipeline which we feel will deliver improved results as we move into the next financial year. I’m sure these results will match and exceed your high standards, Vice President Kim.”

Sakura spares a moment of attention from her Switch to glare up at the screen, and Taeyeon’s box in the corner of it. Taeyeon was older and may have been a rising star amongst the company’s leadership, but Sakura’s exploits a few years ago in Tokyo and Seoul were legendary, and had earned her a near-mythical status amongst its employees.

Despite being a thousand miles apart, the two women have a short, tense standoff - neither blinking, neither backing down.

After a heavy moment of silence that felt much longer than it actually was, Taeyeon offers a token acceptance of Sakura’s explanation in terse Japanese before reluctantly returning her attention to the slides on her laptop screen, teeth clearly gritted behind her perfectly applied lipstick. Kazuha awkwardly and hesitantly continues with her presentation, confidence visibly shaken. 

Sakura returns to her game, all trace of seriousness fleeing from her face as quickly as Mario was no doubt fleeing from the goombas chasing him on her Switch.

When the meeting eventually concludes, Taeyeon signs off with a stern, unimpressed look on her face, staring directly at her camera as though she were passing judgement on everyone in the room. You don’t miss the plain look of disdain Ryujin gives the Vice President’s projection before her image disappears.

The afternoon passes relatively uneventfully, with presentations from the other Tokyo Department Leads that must have been beneath Taeyeon’s interest, if her absence was anything to go by. The spat between her and Sakura had cast a pall over the rest of the afternoon, an elephant in the room that the Marketing and HR Leads’ presentations on Gen Z marketing trends and Japan’s shift in workforce demographics did little to dispel.

At least Sakura was making decent progress in collecting the six Royal Seeds needed to reach the evil Bowser and free the Flower Kingdom, if her poorly-hidden fist pumps and smirks of triumph were anything to go by.

---

She made for quite the sight. She made it hard to concentrate.

Ryujin crosses her legs every few minutes as she lounges on a chair by the floor-to-ceiling window reading a book, feet drawn up on a footstool, those long, bare legs and full thighs on full display. After your room service dinner she’d made a show of choosing the same button-up shirt you’d worn to work that day as her sleepwear for that night, draping it around her naked body and doing up a single button before plopping down on the chair and putting her feet up.

You try to turn your attention to your laptop and the document open on it, but try as you might, the half-naked woman by the window was proving too much of a distraction.

“Are you reading, or putting on a show?” you ask, wryly.

She lets a huff leave her lips, and a small smile perks at the corner of her mouth as she turns her attention from the pages in her hand to look at you. The gold of Tokyo’s sunset paints half her face in warm yellow and orange.

“Maybe a little bit of both,” she answers with a wink, before returning her attention to her book.

Minutes pass. You get through precisely one slide of the two dozen that made up the presentation you were giving tomorrow. You’re tired and drained, and you feel it in your shoulders. It had been a surprisingly long, difficult first day at the Tokyo office, made even harder by the drain of constant travel. 

The little spat between Taeyeon and Sakura would no doubt echo throughout the two weeks you were going to spend here. You sit back on your chair and sigh, the presentation slides suddenly becoming a Herculean task that you had neither the energy nor the willpower to overcome.

Ryujin stands abruptly from her chair by the window, dropping her book on the footstool and staring out at Tokyo’s skyline for a moment before turning to you.

“Bored,” she says, before beginning to walk toward you. “Entertain me, boyfriend.”

The title stirs you, and the fact that she says it while wearing your shirt and nothing else ignites a warm feeling in your chest that bends the corners of your lips up into a smile.

Ryujin steps between you and the laptop and straddles you on your chair. Her stolen shirt parts as her legs spread, revealing the well-kept patch of hair between her legs and the inviting flesh beneath; but she makes no effort to cover herself. Ryujin Shin was nothing if not confident with her body.

She gives you a soft kiss, hands cradling your cheeks before sliding down to softly massage the tense muscles at your neck. Your hands caress her full, round thighs as they bracket your waist. The warmth of her next to you was already doing much to ease the exhaustion of the day.

“You look like a mess. What are you working on that’s made you so tense, anyway?” she asks, turning to glance at the laptop on the table behind her.

On it are your presentation - and the comments Taeyeon had left on them. Front and center: “Don’t forget to make sure you’re consistent with your use of the Oxford comma, dummy! Either use it for all of your sentences, or don’t! Wouldn’t be the first time your grammar’s fucked up a presentation (see 2018 Taiwan acquisition notes) --<3 ;)”

You see the near-instant effect it has on Ryujin - the way her shoulders slouch slightly, the way her lips curl into a barely-perceptible frown. 

“I sent her the presentation I’m giving tomorrow,” you say, eager to address the worry that was no doubt already worming its way into her head. “She wanted to see it first.”

Ryujin turns back to you. The frown remains.

“She’s still my boss, Ryujin,” you add.

Taeyeon was a thousand miles away, and yet she was still somehow still in the room, lingering, ever-present. The ghost of her seemed to haunt every facet of your lives since her appearance in Seoul; one neither of you knew how to dispel.

Ryujin’s eyes find yours, searching, the way she did at the airport the day before. You wonder what she sees in your eyes. You wonder what she feels, what thoughts are running through her head.

“I’m yours,” you say, because you knew it was what she need to hear. “And you’re mine.”

Her lip quivers for a moment, before she nods to herself. 

“I believe you,” she says, seemingly satisfied, at least for now. She plays with your t-shirt, fingers searching for her next words in the cotton strands. The silver chain on her wrist that you never saw her without catches the light of Tokyo’s dusk, turning it into gold.

Her eyes are still on yours, but they lack the playfulness that was present in them just a few moments before. In its place is uncertainty, and she struggles to turn that feeling into words. “But I… but she-”

“She’s a million miles away, Ryujin.”

“Is she?” 

Silence for a moment. A long moment, the latest in a long line of them.

“Tell me why you’re not with her,” she says, eventually. Her voice is small, the way she suddenly is. Your button-up begins to drown her in white linen as she slouches further and she sinks even further into it. “You have so much history together. She knows everything about you. She’s successful. Smart. Charismatic. Almost forty and gorgeous. She’s a fucking vampire in Prada.”

A moment passes. You breathe in, knowing what you are going to say, but steeling yourself enough to say them.

“She chose a promotion over me,” you answer, the words coming quickly, because they were true, and because it was a truth that had spent the last few years looming over you. “She chose a title over love, and it broke me.”

The word hangs heavy in the air. Ryujin’s entire body tenses.

“Did you… love her?”

Another long moment. Another long silence.

“Yes,” you admit. “I did.”

Ryujin’s lips curl against each other as she sucks her lips into her mouth. She nods to herself again, processing your words and the sharp pain they suddenly create in her chest. She’s suddenly unable to hold your gaze and lets it drop to your shirt, where her fingers have stopped the path they were tracing. The chain on her wrist loses its golden lustre as she moves her wrist away from the sunlight, returning to plain silver as though mirroring the emotional state of its owner.

The look on her face breaks your heart. You want to say something. 

“Past tense,” you manage, offering her a small smile she doesn’t see. Ryujin smiles softly, but her eyes don’t lift. You bring a hand from her hip to her cheek, raising her head. When her eyes find yours again they are glassy with tears she refuses to shed. You suddenly feel an overwhelming need to comfort her, reassure her, make sure she knows she’s yours and you’re hers-

“You’re my present, Ryujin.”

A smile appears on her lips - warm and raw and real. A moment passes. Her lip quivers again. Emotion dances behind her teary eyes. Eventually, she lets a scoff escape her nose.

“That was corny as shit, old man,” she says, wiping at her eyes quickly with the sleeve of your stolen shirt. Her eyes find yours again. The tears are gone, absorbed by your stolen shirt before they had the chance to be shed. The smile stays. 

Your hand is warm on her cheek. She turns her cheek and nuzzles softly into your palm, places a soft kiss on the underside of your thumb.

“Tell me why you’re with me, then,” she says, almost a whisper.

Her skin is warm against your palm. Your thumb caresses the soft, flushed skin of her cheek.

“You slipped a power bank into my bag because I keep forgetting to charge my phone,” you begin, wrestling a small, reluctant chuckle from the young woman on your lap. “You order real soju and not that shitty sugar water they sell back home, but take your fucking venti iced caramel macchiato with extra whipped cream and extra caramel drizzle like a psychopath. I watched you give that kid his rubber ball back after it bounced in front of us at the mall and the smile on your face broke me. I like the way you brush your hair behind your ear when it comes loose. I like the way you haggled with this ajummas in the market last week to save a couple thousand won like you were a local. You think the Canucks should have won the Cup in ‘11 if Hamhuis was healthy and Rome didn’t get suspended. You always ask me if I want the last french fry, even though you love them and know I’ll let you have it anyway. I like the way your pinky hooks into mine when we walk down the street. You hate olives. You chose Verso’s ending in Clair Obscur. You don’t care that don’t fold my clothes before I toss them in my luggage-”

“-they get so wrinkly, though! Look at this!” she interjects, slapping your chest playfully and pulling the wrinkled sleeve of your shirt in front of your face, “and you almost burned this fucking hotel down when you tried to iron it this morning. And you only ironed the collar and the front of it! I didn’t even know fabric could get this wrinkly.”

“No one sees the sleeves under my jacket, as long as I keep it on. Good thing the Tokyo office has great AC.”

She chuckles again, but does her best to suppress it. She lets out a little unintentional snort as she does so, and you both laugh at it. You think it’s the most beautiful thing she’d ever done.

Your free hand reaches for her other cheek, until you are cradling her face in your hands.

“You’re my present, Ryujin. And my future, if you’ll have me.”

A long moment passes, but unlike the others, the silence is not unwelcome. Ryujin smiles again, raw and real and true, and so you do too.

“That was the cheesiest shit ever, ohmygodstop--” she sighs, rolling her eyes and making an exaggerated show of peeling your hands off her cheeks in disgust - even as her smile pulls at her full, flushed cheeks.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” you admit, playing along. “Ugh, I fucking knew I should’ve stayed with the whole ‘you’re my present’ thing, but I fucking had to push my luck with the ‘...and my future,’ fuck, what was I thinking, so cringe-”

Ryujin laughs, unguarded and real, until suddenly she’s kissing you. Soft, passionate. Intimate in a way that the words just shared between you were. 

“You didn’t say anything about how great the fucking is,” she says, teasingly, between kisses.

“Yeah, no, it’s pretty great,” you manage. Your hand finds the single button keeping her shirt closed, and undoes it. Your hands slide under the shirt and around her sides. She’s warm and soft beneath your palms. Her naked hips pull closer to yours, the heat between her thighs sliding over the stiffness quickly appearing beneath your pajamas.

Ryujin breaks the kiss but maintains eye contact as her hands slide between your bodies and into your sweatpants. Your eyes shut as her fingers wrap around your length. She drinks in the sight of you, sees what she’s doing to you, and it sends a little thrill up her spine.

“Your future’s looking real good right now, huh?” she asks, the sweet smile on her lips turning wicked. In response, you reach up and pull the halves of her shirt apart and over her shoulders. The shirt falls around her elbows, draping her in the gold of Tokyo dusk. Your right hand drifts to her breast, giving it a firm squeeze and feeling her nipple stiffen under your palm - her turn for her eyes to shut, your turn to drink in the sight of her.

You open your eyes and look at her - all of her.

“Future’s bright,” you answer.

---

The meeting stops for a moment when Hirai Momo joins it.

“Sorry I’m late,” she says as she waddles into the meeting room in downtown Vancouver, patting her round tummy. “Little one’s being a bit of an asshole. Gets it from his dad, I think.”

From an ocean away in Tokyo, you watch as Taeyeon half-rises from her chair to help Momo, only to be waved off. Momo plops into the chair opposite Taeyeon.

“You look like you’re about ready to pop,” says Sakura, sparing a glance from her Switch to shoot Momo’s image on the screen a smile. That fact that she was able to speak so casually to one of the most senior people in the company spoke volumes as to the relationship and history that existed between them.

“Almost,” Momo agrees with a sigh. The Senior Vice President of the company probably should have been getting ready for her clearly imminent delivery, but considering her reputation as a workaholic it probably shouldn’t have surprised you that she was working up until the day she was due. After she has settled into her seat with a huff, she looks up at the camera and offers an awkward but warm smile to the other participants in Tokyo.

“Please, continue, Director,” she says, motioning for you to proceed.

“Thank you,” you reply, before continuing. “As I was saying, the Otensoto deal and the merger with Anon-JY Corp. have alleviated some of the concerns regarding the last financial year, which is a credit to the Tokyo team’s efforts. While there is some room for improvement, the numbers are, on the whole, acceptable and within the lower parameters of our projections.”

Across the conference room table, Kazuha listens to a mumbled English-to-Japanese translation out of the corner of Sakura’s mouth - who was at the moment more engrossed in the plight of a certain Italian plumber rather than that of her office. Kazuha straightens and offers a response in Japanese.

“She admits that there have been significant challenges with regards to moving goods from the port of Osaka to Tokyo, where they make their way to North America,” Ryujin translates at your shoulder, “Trucks are breaking down, gas is expensive, and traffic’s a bitch between Osaka and Tokyo. And that all costs money. Moving shit’s getting expensive.”

You finish your part of the presentation with a recap of your review on the Tokyo office - while income didn’t quite meet Taeyeon’s lofty expectations, the underlying business was still doing well despite external, uncontrollable factors. 

“Thank you, Director,” Momo states with a smile, “and thank you for your work reviewing the Tokyo and Seoul offices. I trust you’re finding time to enjoy the sights in between your meetings and site inspections. You deserve it after the deal we worked on last year.” You find yourself smiling softly in reply, and out of the corner of your eye you watch Ryujin do the same - the Senior Vice President’s pregnancy had given her a glow that only amplified her already considerable charms.

“The Strategy team has several initiatives that will address the Tokyo office’s numbers moving forward,” Taeyeon pipes up. “The Tokyo office’s leadership has assured me that they have several internal initiatives in their pipeline that should assist us in meeting the goals we’ve set for the next quarter. Tokyo’s Operations Lead will provide an overview of those initiatives now.”

At her cue, Kazuha shares her laptop screen, where she’s prepared a meticulous, thorough presentation of the various initiatives she no doubt prepared herself. She begins with outlining the challenges - increased costs of fuel, labor, and maintenance associated with trucking - and moves on to the initiatives she hopes will address them.

Throughout it all Taeyeon needles the young Associate Director with question after question. Kazuha does her best to answer them, and even Sakura is forced to actually pause Mario’s journey at several points to interject a defensive comment or snarky retort. It begins with insinuations and implications, and slowly escalates into thinly-veiled accusations of incompetence and negligence.

The bright glow surrounding Momo seems to have dimmed somewhat as she watches her underlings squabble, but she watches and listens intently nonetheless, as though measuring each participant in the meeting and noting how they were reacting to the ongoing debate.

Fifteen minutes pass, and then half an hour. Taeyeon, Kazuha, and Sakura go back and forth, the logistics of moving goods between Osaka and Tokyo their chosen battleground. As an outside observer your duty was done and it was up to your colleagues to choose how to move forward, but even you thought that the meeting had moved past discussion and into petty squabble. An interjection forms one your lips-

“Trucks to trains.”

All eyes turn to the speaker - Ryujin. An odd, awkward silence falls over the meeting. “Trucks to trains,” Ryujin repeats, a little louder this time. She looks, for a moment, like a tourist speaking a foreign language that no one around her understood.

You watch as she gives her head a small shake, as if to center herself. Her brow furrows. She takes a glance at Sakura and Kazuha on the opposite side of the table, and then up at the projector, where Taeyeon and Momo watch virtually from across the ocean, puzzled. Finally, she glances at you. You offer her a reassuring smile.

She sees her moment, and she takes it.

“Our Seoul office recently made the transition from light and heavy trucks to light rail in order to move goods from the port of Busan up to our Seoul office before distribution to the rest of Asia,” she states, her voice gradually increasing in volume and confidence as she continues. “They experienced a notable savings in shipping costs thanks to the switch, amongst other benefits.”

Ryujin’s fingers fly on the keyboard of her laptop. She shares her screen with the meeting and on it are the charts and graphs from the Seoul office.  When she speaks again, her voice is firm, self-assured.

“Seoul experienced an eighteen point nine five percent increase in shipping savings thanks to this transition. Not only did they save costs - they also experienced a higher on-time delivery rate and shorter expected delivery time overall thanks to the generally higher reliability and speed of rail as opposed to trucks. This resulted in a cascading series of benefits - our distribution staff in Seoul received more goods faster and more reliably, meaning they could distribute them throughout Asia faster, which meant our distributors throughout Asia were receiving more reliable supply, etcetera. A transition to rail would come with several upfront costs, meaning it would take several quarters for the savings to take effect, but…”

The room falls silent for another moment, before Sakura leaps into action. You’d heard the stories, and saw glimpses of it in her verbal duels with Taeyeon, but until that moment you didn’t fully believe in them. 

Sakura moves like a woman possessed. Her fingers are a blur on her laptop’s keyboard - which, to that point, had really only been used as a makeshift screen to poorly hide her Switch. She gestures sharply to Kazuha at several points, barking orders in sharp, terse Japanese which her younger subordinate scrambles to follow. She scribbles wildly on a nearby legal pad, although whether they were words or numbers or something only she could understand, no one else in the room seemed to know.

On the screen, you watch as Taeyeon is taken aback by Sakura’s transformation, shocked into silence. Momo leans back in her chair, fingers interlaced crossed over the fullness of her tummy. She’d seen this before, and knew what was about to happen.

A minute or two passes. Eventually Sakura raises her head from her laptop, a fiery intensity in her eyes that is almost frightening.

“A transition from trucking to rail in order to bring goods from Osaka to Tokyo would result in a twenty two point six percent improvement by the end of the financial year,” she states, slamming her pen down atop the legal pad for emphasis.

Taeyeon is the first to object, as you’d assumed she would. “We can’t just jump into such a drastic change so quickly without the necessary due diligence,” she states, hurriedly. “We’ll need to upstaff and delegate a project manager. We’ll need to do a feasibility study and ROI report on the whole idea, not to mention putting together a business case for Board approval and then eventually RFPs and a competition for any possible rail providers-”

Momo stops her with a raised hand. When she speaks, it is firm and decisive.

“Make it happen, Sakura,” she says to the camera, before turning to Ryujin. “Excellent idea… Miss-?”

Ryujin clears her throat. There is a new confidence in her features that wasn’t there minutes ago.

“Shin. Ryujin Shin,” she states, straightening her posture and giving Momo a confident smile. “From the Vancouver office’s Marketing department.”

“Ryujin Shin,” Momo repeats, an approving look on her face. “I’ll remember that name. And you’re in Marketing, huh? With ideas like that, I think there’s a place for you in Strategy. Well done.”

You don’t miss the loaded look she gives Taeyeon before she continues.

“Sakura, I trust you’ll keep me updated on the transition. Good meeting, everyone.”

If Sakura heard Momo sign off, she made no indication of it. She and Kazuha are suddenly a flurry of activity and hissed Japanese, the former already setting into motion a series of plans with an almost frightening intensity that the latter struggles to keep up with. Across the ocean, Momo does her best to get up from her chair and hurry to her next meeting. 

Taeyeon seethes, and Ryujin glows.

--

It doesn’t take her long. Ryujin slips into the spare executive office the two of you have been using for the duration of your visit to the Tokyo office, and the sly smile on her lips and mischievous look in her eye tell you exactly what she’s intending.

The smile that finds itself on your lips mirrors hers.

“This is a place of work, Ryujin Shin. One that we shouldn’t defile with your-”

“Office is almost empty,” she says, voice low and conspiratorial. She closes the door behind her with a click, eyes still locked on yours. “I just saw the HR team duck into a meeting room and the tablet on the door says it’s an hour-long videoconference with Vancouver. Plenty of time.”

“Miss Shin,” you begin with a smile, returning your gaze to your laptop even as the click-clack of her heels signalled her approach, “this office isn’t for lewd, profane acts like the ones that are no doubt running through your head. And to think you’d want to engage in such acts with our colleagues in Human Resources a mere few rooms away? Unthinkable!”

She spins your chair around to face her, placing her hands on the back of your wrists, pinning them to the armrests. The smile on her lips is wicked - in a way you’d never seen before.

She bends to kiss you and it’s almost violent the way your lips and teeth clash. Your lips grind against her teeth at one point and you’re pretty sure she’s literally cut you open with a kiss - or maybe it was a bite - either way, the slight metallic tang on your tongue was most definitely blood.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never fantasized about me riding you on that couch,” she says, pointing with her gaze toward the two leather couches that sat opposite each other in the rather lavishly furnished office, “or maybe you’d prefer bending me over it?”

“Miss Shin,” you say, mockingly. “Those couches are for important client meetings-”

Another kiss. She drags her tongue over your cut lip, then pulls away. Her tongue slides over her cherry-glossed lips, as though she is savoring the taste of your blood on her palette.

“Come on,” she says, suddenly pouting. “Don’t you think I deserve a reward for how well I did in that meeting today, Daddy?”

You smirk, despite yourself. Ryujin’s idea to convert the company’s transportation from trucking to trains on the Osaka to Tokyo route was just what the Tokyo office needed to meet Taeyeon’s lofty expectations - to say nothing of the personal satisfaction she gained from Momo’s dismissal of Taeyeon’s objections and subsequent compliments. Maybe it was one of those things, or some combination of them - either way, the events of the afternoon’s meeting had clearly awakened something in her - a side of her you hadn’t seen before. 

“You did well today, baby girl,” you say, reaching up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. “A reward is definitely deserved.”

You knew how the next few minutes would turn out. For all her self-confidence outside of it Ryujin was relatively submissive in the bedroom. 

But today she flips the script on its head. She flashes you a sinful smile before she pulls you to your feet by your tie. She drags you in front of one of the couches and pushes you onto it with more roughness and strength than you were expecting, or even knew she was capable of.

Before you know it she is straddling you. Her lips find yours and the kiss is as violent and needy as the ones previous - a clash of lips and teeth and tongue that was more a single-sided display of dominance than a mutual display of affection.

Your hands find their way to that tiny torso of hers and the waistline of her grey pencil skirt - only for her to grasp them both by your wrists and pin them to the seat of the couch.

“No touching this time,” she hisses into your ear. “No doing anything unless I let you. This time, you’re mine, Daddy.”

“Fuck, Ryujin-”

She silences you with a kiss again, this one only slightly less aggressive. You feel her lips smiling even as she continues it, and even as her hands reach between you to quickly get your belt and pants undone.

You let a sharp breath leave your lungs as she slides her hand under your boxers and finds your mostly-stiffened cock. Her hands wrap around your length, teasing it to full hardness. She takes her time, her fingers moving at a glacial pace, fingers sliding up and down your shaft and making your eyes shut involuntarily as the first few spikes of pleasure work their way up your spine. She stops for a moment with her fingers tight around the upper half of your shaft, her thumb catching and spreading the bead of pre-cum she finds leaking from you, smearing it over your tip.

“Did you like it, Daddy? Did you like how I did?”

“Fuck yes, Ryujin,” you hiss, even as she begins to pump her hand up and down your length, the added lubrication of your pre-cum making her every movement that much more pleasurable. “You did so well, baby girl. You made Daddy so proud.”

Your praise ignites something in Ryujin, and for a moment there is a flush of warmth on her cheeks. “Thank you, Daddy,” she says, softly. With her free hand, she is undoing the buttons on the tight white blouse she is wearing, until it is undone to her waist. She untucks it, pulling it free from the waistline of her skirt.

Her fingers play with the halves of her blouse, pulling them apart, revealing the simple white lace bra she is wearing beneath it.

Her fingers grasp the left cup of her bra, before pulling it down slowly. Her small, round breast pops free with a small, teasing bounce, nipple already tight and stiff with need. She does the same to the other cup, relishing the sight of you following her fingers and taking in the sight of her bared chest.

“Do you like them, Daddy?” she asks, voice low and needy. “Do you want to touch them? Or wrap your lips on them and suck? You know how wet I get when you suck on my tits-”

She is interrupted for a moment when your hands leave the couch to fondle her - only for her to catch them by your wrists and pin them against the seat once more.

“Uh uh,” she teases, smile sinful. “This is my reward, remember Daddy?”

“Fucking hell, Ryujin.”

Satisfied that you weren’t going to resist, Ryujin’s hands leave your wrists. She raises her hips slightly, until her cunt is hovering less than an inch from your aching tip. With one hand she pulls the hem of her skirt up, revealing her drenched panties - with the other, she pulls them aside. She is glistening and drenched and you can almost feel the heat and wetness of her on the tip of your cock. It twitches with need.

Your eyes find hers and you have never seen such a wicked, devilish look on her features. 

The hand at her skirt leaves it, and reaches down for your cock, aiming it at her cunt. She slides down your length. You both sigh, the breath leaving your lungs in a sharp exhalation of sharp, pure pleasure.

“Fuck, Daddy,” she hisses into your ear as her arms wrap themselves around your shoulders and neck. You bottom out inside her, and for a moment she sits fully impaled on your cock. “Fuck, always so big inside me, stretching me out. Making me take you.”

A breathless “Mmmm” is all you can manage. She begins to move, and for a few moments neither of you are able to do much more than simply process the pleasure that begins to course through your bodies.

In, out, up, down, nothing else mattered aside from the feel of your cock and the way it felt in Ryujin’s tight, wet little cunt. Not the fact that you were fucking at the office and literally anyone could walk through the door; not the fact that this relationship would probably end up ruining one or both of your careers; not the fact that you were entering the final week of your trip and you’d found yourself wishing more than once that it would never end.

No, none of that mattered. All that exists are her sharp gasps of pleasure in your ear, the slick, wet sounds her cunt makes as it takes your cock in and out between her drenched lips, and her warm, hot breath against your cheek.

The minutes pass, but time soon becomes an abstract, foreign concept. It’s a lot. It’s overwhelming.

Your hands, unable to remain motionless, move to her thighs. Ryujin grasps them again and pins them to the backrest of the couch - forcefully.

“Mine,” she growls. “You’re mine, Daddy.”

It had been a recurring theme during sex, and in your relationship as a whole - ownership. Often it was used in passionate context; sometimes it was softer, more intimate. But it was different today. Darker. More intense. More real, more aggressive in a way it hadn’t been up to this point.

You watch as she rides you, hands pinning your wrists to the couch, hips and thighs and core moving to throw herself against your cock over and over again with increasing speed and tempo. You could’ve easily overpowered her, ripped your hands from the couch and done what you willed with her - but the sight of her pinning you down, the feel of her taking what she wanted from you, heedless of your own wants and needs - it was a new kind of pleasure, a new kind of power over you that she hadn’t shown before.

Her gasps raise in volume until she realizes, for a moment, where she is - at work, in an office, just a few empty rooms apart from a room full of colleagues - and the bite she gives her own lip in an attempt to stifle her moans drives you crazy.

Her small breasts bounce with each movement of her body, peaked nipples begging. She sees it, sees the need in your eyes. Mercifully, she bends forward - just far enough for you to capture one of them between your lips.

She slows her pace slightly, grinding against you now rather than bouncing atop you, squeezing her cunt in a well-practiced rhythm with each entry and exit of your cock. You feel her juices drip down your shaft and onto your balls. She’s so wet, so very wet, and she’s making a mess of the couch that you’d have to clean up afterward. 

But she doesn’t care. Her hands tighten around your wrists as she tries to ground herself against the pleasure coursing from her pussy and the suckling of your mouth on her breasts.

“Fuck, Daddy-” she hisses, breathless, onto the top of your head. “Soon, gonna, oh god-.”

You’re surprised by how quickly she’s approaching her first orgasm. But the danger, the aggression, the powerlessness - you would’ve been lying if you’d said you weren’t almost as close as she was. It was intoxicating. Overwhelming.

“Ryujin, fuck, me too. Let me cum in you, baby girl-”

“Do it, Daddy, please-” she hisses, voice rising in pitch as if to mirror the level of pleasure coursing through her veins. “Make me drip you, Daddy. I’m gonna cum too. Are you… are you going to breed me today? Are you going to breed me, here in this office? Put a baby in my belly? Look at me, please, look at me, just me, look at only me--”

She pulls your mouth from the sore, reddened peaks of her nipples. Her eyes find yours and they’re just as lost in pleasure. Her lips part-

“Fill your girl.”

Her cunt tightens and pulses rhythmically as she cums on you. You are unable to fight the pleasure any more than she is, and you let yourself go, burying yourself as deeply as you are able inside her before you follow her into bliss. Your eyes, by some miracle, remain locked on each other the whole time as you watch each other cum.

Your cock pulses as it fills her, paints her cunt white. She trembles and quivers with each spurt as though she felt each one hit the most vulnerable part of her. Her eyes twitch with each rope. They quiver and tremble but she manages to keep them open, locked on yours.

You both sit there for a while, breathing heavily, two sacks of boneless, powerless flesh. Eventually she breaks your gaze to drop her forehead to yours. It was a quickie in almost every sense and you both probably spent more time recovering than you did actually having sex - not that it mattered. Not when the high was so high.

Some amount of time later her head lifts. Her eyes find yours again. You both want to say something - perhaps repeat the pledging of yourselves to each other the way you had so many times before in a post-sex haze - but this time neither of you felt the need.

Perhaps somewhere along the way you’d both realized that this was more than just a business trip fling, more than just two lonely souls seeking companionship while away from home. Perhaps it was because you both knew it by now, and it didn’t need repeating, because the truth of it was already right there, plain to see, in each others’ eyes and in the language spoken with soft lips and gentle touches. 

She smiles, she kisses you, and nothing else matters.

---

You’re wandering the streets of Shimokitazawa on a day off in Tokyo when the email arrives.

The day is warm, but thankfully the wonderful sugar and salt water concoction of Pocari Sweat did well to keep you hydrated and cool in the mid-summer Tokyo heat. The small bench opposite the vintage store Ryujin had hopped into provided a suitable place for you to take a well-deserved break from all the shopping and sightseeing. Transportation and logistics be damned; touristing was the hardest work.

You’re scrolling your phone for a suitable dinner location, debating between the tonkotsu ramen place in Ginza that had been recommended to you by your assistant and yet another visit to the local branch of CoCo Curry. 

The email banner notification steals your attention. The email itself isn’t even addressed to you - you’re just a copy on it. An afterthought. An FYI. The email itself is simple, business like:

---

To: Shin, Ryujin

From: Bae, SuzyCC: Hirai, Momo; Kim, Taeyeon; Miyawaki, Sakura; Nakamura, Kazuha

Subject: Employee Transfer/Relocation Approved - Shin, Ryujin, EE# 2113 - Vancouver -> Tokyo

Hello Ryujin,

Please find attached a completed and approved Employee Transfer/Relocation Form detailing your transfer and relocation from the Vancouver Head Office to the Tokyo Regional Office, effective immediately. 

As a part of this transfer you have been seconded from the Marketing department to the Strategy department for the duration of your project in Tokyo, which is expected to last 24-36 months. For the duration of your project you will report to Sakura Miyawaki, Director, Tokyo office.

In recognition of your efforts and to ensure a smooth transition into the Tokyo office’s reporting structure, you have been promoted from Marketing Lead to Senior Operations Lead.

Please also find attached resources and guides that will assist in your relocation to the Tokyo office, including visa, accommodation, and other related relocation forms and documents. One of our Relocation Specialists will be in touch shortly to assist you further with this process.

Reach out if you have any questions or concerns. Congratulations on your promotion, and best of luck in Tokyo!

Sincerely,

Suzy Bae

Director, Human Resources

JYP Inc.

---

It takes you several reads before you can even begin to process it. Surprise, pain, rage - it all battles inside you, all at once.

Ryujin emerges from the store, a new shopping bag in hand. Her smile is bright, unaware of the heartache that awaits her the next time she looks at her phone.

She's wearing your shirt again, that white button-up - one that probably needed a wash, but she'd picked it out of the pile of clothing you'd draped over a chair in your hotel suite and worn it because it smelled like you.

She reaches for you, pulls you up off the bench, and threads her fingers in yours. You stare down at your intertwined hands. The silver chain on her wrist catches the Tokyo afternoon sun, turning it gold again. 

Still in shock, you let her lead you down the street to your next destination, unable to say or do anything more.

Oblivious, she turns to you and smiles.

---

Author’s Note: Tomorrow comes.

[thelastdrop]

god i love momo in practice vids

[thelastdrop]

Dude, where is that sana gif from? Haven’t seen that one before 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

[thelastdrop]

tight leather will always look good

[thelastdrop]

just a perfect fit for her

[thelastdrop]

LETS GO NEW ALBUM IN JULY BABY

[thelastdrop]

i don’t know if i’ll ever see something so pretty again

[thelastdrop]

ITS SO GOOD

Clair Obscur GOTY.

Lune best girl

[thelastdrop]

god just like 3 more months until i can see them bounce live

[thelastdrop]

showing off how much she’s growing

[thelastdrop]

mommy

[thelastdrop]

SHE'S 36

[thelastdrop]

again these red outfits are the best

[thelastdrop]

IMPURITIES EP. 3 | The Poison

Male reader x Kazuha

word count: 11.8k

tags: teasing (a lot), brat zuha with daddy kink is always the best zuha

━•✦•━•✦•━

━•✦•━•✦•━

Thank goodness the tour was over, and you hadn't died in the process.

To your surprise, all the girls behaved like civilized and responsible people during the remaining weeks. Even Kazuha, who sometimes took it upon herself to give you headaches, had stayed out of the way and hadn't caused any problems with her typical bratish behavior. Eunchae was almost never a thorn in your side; she was an angel 90% of the time. But you were still grateful that she hadn't let the other 10% win.

On the other hand, Chaewon had paid you occasional visits at night to sleep with you, without causing a fuss or being too annoying. Yunjin was very much in her element; she had spent all those days training her vocal skills and composing songs in her room. The one who was arguably giving you the hardest time was, ironically, the oldest of the five. Sakura wasn't lying when she said you'd won over a hungry Yokai, as she made you come to her room at least every other day so you could fuck her in every possible hole. Sometimes you weren't very willing, whether due to mental exhaustion or stress, but you preferred that to letting her become unbearable.

When you returned to Korea, the air was relieved knowing that everyone would be able to get a break. The next comeback cycle was approaching, but you would have two and a half weeks of vacation before then. Neither you nor the girls had travel plans during that time, so you were going to continue living together in the house for a while.

Because yes, you lived together in one house.

During the first year, it wasn't like that. They lived in their usual dorm, and you lived in your apartment ten minutes away. But starting at a certain point in 2023, when Antifragile had already been a global success, the company decided to invest in a big house on the outskirts of the city for the six of you to live there. The explanation had been that this would streamline the work process and cut logistics costs. Although you felt there were loopholes in that excuse.

The girls weren't entirely happy at first, and to be honest, neither were you. Just like you, they valued the privacy of a shared dormitory all to themselves, and by now living with you, they thought they'd be watched at all times. But luckily for them, you weren't a snitch or a weirdo. The solution you implemented was simple: the first floor for you, and the second for them. On your floor, you'd have everything you needed, and if you needed to go upstairs, you'd do so with full notice. That ended up convincing them.

A year later, complaints about daily living were few and far between. They argued more often with each other than they did with you. That wasn't your problem anymore, so you didn't interfere; you simply listened to the shouting from the comfort of your floor. Occasionally, you had to intervene from the stairs to get them to shut up, but generally speaking, you were comfortable living together.

Now, having to cook for five people was a real pain, but you were lucky that Yunjin loved cooking, and she often helped you when she wasn't busy with her own things. Waking them up was also a pain sometimes, since you couldn't get into their rooms using the traditional method. No, you had to blow up Chaewon's phone with calls, and often the idiot left it on vibrate, in which case you had to turn to Sakura to do the job.

But despite the problems, you could safely say that the best time of your life had begun thanks to that, and it had been the sowing of a harvest of memories of all kinds that you treasured in your heart. There was no way you would regret it. Not for a single second.

Even less so recently, when your relationship with three of the girls had taken on a completely new dimension that promised interesting things.

None of them had commented on it, but you knew what they were thinking. The tension was palpable. It was only a matter of time before you received something. Whether it was a visit to your room, a photo, a message, a glance. Anything. And you weren't crazy to think that: days ago, when you were still in the US, Chaewon had let you know that you would receive clues. That you shouldn't expect them to come directly and ask you explicitly and that you should also do your part. You didn't entirely know how you would do that, but in time your mind would open up.

That was another thing. You still weren't entirely sure how to feel about being... whatever you were to them now. It felt wrong. You certainly weren't a prude, and you were crazy about women—especially those women. But it didn't quite feel right. Maybe it was just a matter of time before you got used to it, and you honestly hoped so, because if you dared to waste this opportunity life had handed you on a silver platter, you'd never forgive yourself.

Still, it was a situation that had to be handled with caution, because it was extremely easy for it to spiral out of control. Whether it was due to unrespected boundaries or worse: unintentionally generated feelings. You were very careful about that, of course. But you couldn't control how any of the girls felt, and that made you anxious.

Chaewon was the one you were most careful with, because to be honest, you felt a lot of chemistry with her. A little too much, maybe. And consequently, your treatment of her was... slightly different. Not too different to avoid raising suspicions, but you cut short every little intimate moment you two had after fucking with the classic excuse that you had work to do.

Although if you thought about it, you'd already let her sleep with you more than once during the tour, and a couple of times you weren't even intimate...

You were going to play dumb, yeah.

Yunjin had been the first to desecrate—as far as you knew—the roof you lived under, just a day after you'd settled back there after arriving in Korea. It happened at night, when, after she'd showered and while the other girls were sleeping, she caught you watching Breaking Bad at two in the morning in the living room, wrapped in only a stupidly short towel that barely covered anything.

Aside from that, neither Chaewon nor Sakura made a move. But not for any specific reason; most likely they just didn't feel like it. They continued to behave normally.

But Kazuha was acting strange.

Spending so much time with her over the past year helped you notice the unusual patterns of behavior. Something didn't add up. Mostly, it was small details that led you to think that. Ways of greeting you in the morning, discreet glances for no apparent reason, sudden mood swings when you interacted with her, and even leaving out of nowhere while you were all chatting together. As if being around you made her nervous.

She knew something, you were sure.

They were girls, and they spent a lot of time together, so surely one of the three had told her about their experiences with you. Everything pointed to Sakura, since she was the one she spent the most time with during those days. That was dangerous. If Chaewon or Yunjin had told her, you knew they would have been subtle about it, not sharing too much information or details. But Kura was a different breed. That girl didn't mince words, and you feared she'd have given Kazuha a wealth of details about what you and her were up to. That included how you fucked, where, when, and you were sure she'd even given her details about how big your...

Yeah, bad business. Not only because she knew, which was already a problem. But because you feared retaliation.

Kazuha might have seemed like a chill, carefree girl, with a typical joking attitude. But behind that innocent mask, you knew she was hiding a malevolent being with a meticulous way of acting. She was just the kind of woman who could tell you the best joke in the world and two hours later sell you out to some drug cartel in exchange for an Overwatch skin. A somewhat exaggerated analogy, but one that fit perfectly with her deceitful nature.

Time soon proved you right.

That day you woke up early in the morning, as usual. Sunlight was beginning to bathe the interior patio, forcing you to open your eyes since it was right in front of you behind the glass wall. After rubbing your eyes and gathering your willpower, you got up from the sofa bed you were sleeping on and walked, with the cold wooden floor beneath your feet, to the bathroom to brush your face and brush your teeth.

After finishing your basic personal hygiene routine, you left the bathroom and turned up the air conditioning since you were freezing. Then you walked to the other side of the house. In the kitchen, you went to the far right of the counter behind the island and turned on the espresso machine to let it warm up. While waiting, you sat in a chair at the dining table to quickly check your email and social media once you were sure you didn't have anything important to do.

That time of day was your favorite. Peaceful. Silent. With nothing but the distant sound of birds perching in the nearby trees. In your profession, those moments were to be cherished for how rare they were, and you let absolutely nothing disturb you during them. Not while any of the brats...

Movement to your left, just at the bottom of the stairs.

"Good morning, manager-nim," Zuha said, passing behind you to go to the refrigerator. You followed her with your eyes, your brow furrowed in confusion but also in disbelief. She was wearing only a white T-shirt that barely covered her bottom, and she was barefoot.

"What the hell are you doing up at this hour, Nakamura?" was the first thing that escaped your mouth. "Especially you."

"What time is it?" Zuha asked, her hand on the refrigerator handle. You weren't surprised at how beautiful she still looked without makeup and just waking up.

"7 in the morning."

"Oh, my biological clock must have gotten messed up," she shrugged and opened the refrigerator door, disappearing behind it. Seconds later, she closed it, a small carton of strawberry milk in her other hand. "You don't mind a little morning company, do you?"

Your gaze fell as Kazuha leaned against the refrigerator and put one leg in front of the other, pressing her thighs together and barely revealing her crotch. You quickly looked away.

"I don't care," you admitted, shaking your head. You looked back down at your phone, but a few seconds later, you looked back at her. "Are you just going to stand there or what?"

"Does it bother you?"

You inhaled a deep breath and let it out with your eyes closed.

"No, Kazuha, it doesn't bother me."

"Great."

The ten minutes you usually let the espresso machine heat up had already passed, so you stood up and went to check if it was ready. Once you confirmed it, the next step was to grind the coffee beans, but you kept them in a cupboard right above the refrigerator. You made a move to get it, but Kazuha was in the way.

"Oh, do you need anything?" Zuha asked, sipping the strawberry milk carton through the straw.

"Yes, the coffee beans," you pointed. "Please move aside."

"I'll get it for you! Hold this for a second."

Zuha held the small carton against your chest for you to take and looked up at the cupboard, then stood on her tiptoes, raising her arms, and, consequently, pushing her shirt up enough so you could clearly see her ass and cheeky black panties.

"These here?" Zuha asked, taking the bag. She didn't seem to notice you were staring at her beautiful rear end, and if she did, she didn't care in the least.

"Uh... yeah."

Zuha took them and stood back on her heels. She then took the milk carton from you and handed you the coffee beans. Her expression indicated that she was completely pretending that what happened a second ago hadn't happened. The air inside the house was cold, it was impossible for her not to have noticed.

It was foul play, and at your distinct disadvantage, since you couldn't do the same.

"Thanks," you simply said, and tried to focus on your damn espresso, which was all you'd wanted since you woke up.

As you ground approximately 15 grams of coffee, Zuha disappeared from your peripheral vision. You heard her take steps behind you, and all you heard were her sipping on the straw. It was the typical moment when a lion played dumb seconds before snapping its jaws at its prey.

After grinding the coffee, you picked up the portafilter, washed it, and dried it thoroughly with a dry cloth before adding the ground coffee. Then you picked up the tamper and applied gentle pressure to level the coffee inside the filter. Finally, you prepared to slide the portafilter into the machine.

"Manager-nim, why is Chaewonie sleeping with you lately?" Zuha asked from behind you.

The question caught you off guard, and since your brain wasn't prepared to handle both tasks at the same time, you dropped the portafilter, creating a mess of ground coffee on the counter and the floor beneath your feet.

"Fucking shit!" you cursed, slamming the counter so hard that the side of your fist ached.

"Oh my god! I'm sorry!" Zuha said. Her shock didn't seem to be faked.

"It’s okay, it wasn't your fault."

Yes, it was. But you weren't going to tell her that.

With your teeth clenched in anger, you went to the left, toward the small utility room where you kept the cleaning supplies.

"Let me help you!" Zuha said, hopping off the counter she was sitting on just as you turned the doorknob.

Zuha reached you, and with her back to you, squeezed into the narrow space between you and the door. As she did so, she deliberately pushed her hips back and rubbed her ass against your bulge to enter the room. You froze, staring into space as she grabbed a dustpan and broom.

"Zuha, you don't need to..."

"Bullshit!" Zuha interrupted you, repeating the same process, only this time she stood still for a moment while her ass pressed against your bulge. She looked at you over her shoulder. "Let me help you, grump!"

Zuha stepped away and went to sweep up the coffee grounds you'd dropped, leaving you in a state of horniness that you suppressed as much as possible. But she played another damn trick. For some reason, she found it necessary to bend over to pick up who knows what damn thing from the floor, consequently giving you a glimpse of her panties, specifically, her slit from behind. She stayed in that position for a few seconds, making sure you saw as much of her cameltoe as possible before standing up.

"Nakamura, what the fuck are you doing?" you asked, feeling your cock harden beneath your boxers. You hid it with your left fist, gripping your forearm with your other hand.

"Huh?" Zuha turned to you, wiping the counter with a kitchen towel. "Helping you. Can't you see or what?"

"That's not what I meant."

"Then I have no idea what you're talking about, manager-nim," Zuha shook her head, shrugging.

Damn brat. Why the hell was she doing that? It was now certain that she knew everything. But why tease you like that? Was she resentful in some way? Or did she just like to play with her prey like cats do? It could very well have been a mix of both, which made it twice as terrifying since you didn't know how far she was going to take it before actually dropping the bombshell.

A damn mouse being stalked by a snake. Great.

"Forget it," you sighed, and went to help her with the mess you'd made because of her.

About five minutes later, the floor and counter were as clean as ever. Kazuha carried the broom and dustpan back to the utility room and came back with you as you repeated the same process with the coffee beans, her lower back resting on the edge of the counter to your left. Her gaze was attentive to everything you did, like a curious cat.

"Are you going to learn how to make espresso for the girls or what?" you asked as you started the extraction.

"No, it's just fun to watch," Zuha replied. "It's... relaxing."

"Sure," you nodded, looking up at her as you dusted off your hands. "Are you going to tell me the real reason you got up at this hour, or will you keep me guessing all day?"

"I already told you: my biological clock must have been messed up. I don't know."

You chuckled.

"If I hadn't known you for three years, maybe I'd believe you, Nakamura."

"Are you calling me a liar?" Kazuha raised her eyebrows.

"Yes."

"That's very rude of you, manager-nim," she crossed her arms and pouted. "But I think you're being a bit hypocritical."

"Oh yeah? And why?"

"Remember when I asked you in Chicago why Chaewonie hadn't woken up in her bed, and you told me it was because she had plans with Kura that night?" Zuha pushed back from the counter and faced you, staring into your eyes. "Guess what? Kura-chan said Chaewonie never went to her room that night. Who lied to me?"

Shit. She'd put you between a rock and a hard place. Kura was a damn snitch.

"She must have been playing a trick on you or something," you replied. "I'm pretty sure I saw them together that night."

"Hypocrite," Zuha snapped.

"I'm not lying to you, Nakamura."

"You are," Zuha took a step forward without taking her eyes off you, entering your personal bubble. "And the more you do it, the deeper you dig your own grave."

"Kazuha, I swear I don't know what you're talking about. She was..."

"You're fucking her too, manager-nim?" Zuha blurted out, leaving you hanging. "I know you did it with Sakura. She told me everything. So..." she closed the distance between your bodies, pressing hers against your side and her thigh against your crotch. Her shirt lifted again, and you caught a glimpse of her left buttock. "Are you going to tell me the truth, or are you going to make this more complicated for yourself?"

It took a tremendous amount of willpower not to touch her, as her toned body felt way too good against yours. Her hot breath against your neck didn't help either.

"So what if I did?" you asked, trying your best not to look at her as Kazuha rubbed her thigh between your legs. "Are you going to tell PD Nim everything or something?"

"No way. I'm not a snitch," Zuha retorted. "Come on, stop being a damn liar and speak."

As much as you wanted to, her damn thigh was being a severe distraction, keeping your thoughts from organizing. Kazuha knew it, and that's why, apart from her thigh, she reached down to grab your already hard cock and gently squeezed it to short-circuit you.

"Did the cat eat her tongue, manager-nim?" Zuha murmured near your ear, tightening her fingers around the outline of your cock through your sweatpants.

"Shit," you gasped, closing your eyes as you pressed your lips together. "Nakamura, stop playing..."

"I'm not playing," Zuha retorted, reaching inside your sweatpants and boxers for your cock. "You wish I was playing."

How easy it would be to lose your temper, grab her by the waist, and fuck her from behind against one of those countertops. For God's sake, you were going to go crazy.

"Yes, Nakamura, I fucked Chaewon," you managed to say, but very quietly as Kazuha massaged your cock beneath her fingers.

"Excuse me?" Zuha brought her ear to your mouth, then pulled your cock out of your sweatpants and masturbated you with her five fingers at a pace that felt too good. "I don't think I heard you quite right."

You brought your hands to your head and let it fall back, feeling all your sanity drain from your body. The situation reminded you of when Chaewon and Yunjin forced information out of you at the hotel pool in New York. Same damn helplessness.

"You're a damn..." you trailed off as she moved her wrist faster.

"What did you say?" Zuha tilted her head, and before continuing her handjob, she spat a decent amount of saliva into her hand.

"F-for God's sake! Fine! I fucked Chaewon!" you finally managed to spit out loud and clear enough for her to hear.

Kazuha then stopped abruptly. Something inside you told you that you should have expected that given how everything had played out, but you still groaned in frustration. She quickly took a couple of steps back, knowing that in the midst of desperation you could try something.

"Good to know, then," was all she said, her lips curled into a damned smirk at having gotten her way. "I think I'll go back to bed, manager-nim. Sleep hit me again."

"You fucking..."

"I'll see you later!" Kazuha said, and upon reaching the other side of the kitchen island, she turned her back to you and took off her shirt, revealing her magnificent, perfect ass and completely bare back as she walked toward the stairs, her T-shirt crumpled in a line that covered her small tits.

When Zuha came back up, she left you there alone, cock out and horny as hell. You had no choice but to finish the job she'd started, using the saliva she'd left on your shaft to do it.

And well, it was the best jerk-off of your life. Why deny it?

After cumming and cleaning up the embarrassing mess you'd made, you finally settled down to drink your damn espresso, with the damned uncertainty of not knowing what the hell Kazuha wanted from you. She'd already gotten what she wanted, and you suspected it was nothing more than a green light to act without any qualms. A position that only harmed you, of course.

For the next two days, you and her didn't talk much, but that was exactly what she wanted, since she knew your attention was going to be on her anyway. Kazuha wandered around the house, usually without pants or wearing clothes that were too tight and without a bra. Like any intelligent person, you tried not to pay too much attention to her, but she had her ways of making sure you always saw her, like walking right past you while you were using your laptop or bending over in ways that forced you to lift your head.

It was a damn torment you weren't sure how long you could endure, and that Kazuha could prolong as long as she wanted until you were begging for pussy. Maybe that was what she wanted after all: for you to lose all dignity and get on your knees before her and act like a pathetic, desperate dog. You were better than that, luckily.

That day was Friday night. Chaewon, Kura, and Eunchae had recently gone out to dinner, and it was just Yunjin, who was locked in her room, you, and Kazuha, whom you hadn't heard from all day. In Chaewon's words, she was spending the whole day to herself, and they had decided to leave her alone and not bother her.

Which meant you were certain no one was going to bother you. By the time you lay down on your sofa bed, you'd already eaten dinner and taken a shower, and were snuggled up under your blanket, reading a book with ambient noise in your AirPods to help you focus.

A while passed, and you were completely immersed in your reading, already feeling relaxed and ready to sleep in a couple of hours.

Until you felt a couple of taps on your right shoulder that nearly made your heart leap out of your body. The shock was such that your book fell into your lap.

"...Sorry!" was what you managed to hear. Taking out your AirPods, you looked over your shoulder to find Kazuha standing behind you, dressed in a tight black tracksuit consisting of tiny shorts and a sports bra under which she was wearing nothing. She was all sweaty, her hair tied in a high bun. It was probably the hottest thing she had ever looked.

"This better be important, Nakamura," you gasped, feeling like your heart was going to jump out of your chest from how fast it was beating.

"Did I scare you that much?"

You didn't even respond, just stared at her, lips set in a line and eyes expressionless.

"Okay, okay, sorry. Well, I came to ask for your help with something."

Kazuha was breathing a little ragged; she'd probably just finished training a little while ago.

"I was going to sleep in a bit."

"It'll be quick! I promise!" She clasped her hands together in a pleading gesture. "I just need you to help me with my stretches."

You let out a deep breath. This wasn't going to end well for you, you were sure of it. It was the perfect excuse for her to tease you even more. The option of refusing was growing stronger inside you, but fuck... what a damn sexy body. Tight in every corner and glistening with sweat. It wasn't fair at all.

"Okay, Nakamura," you nodded with a sigh, swishing your feet off the couch to slide them into your Crocs. "But hurry up. I'm already sleepy."

"Hai!" Zuha nodded, and ran to find a yoga mat she'd left nearby to spread it out in the space between the carpet and the glass wall that led to the inner patio. "Just stand behind me, okay?"

"Behind... you?" You wrinkled your brow, taking hesitant steps to stand on the mat with her.

Kazuha was the one who turned around so her back was to you. Your gaze inevitably dropped to her ass, and then quickly back to her when she looked over her shoulder at you.

"Hey, focus," Zuha chided you.

You raised your hands and shrugged.

Zuha looked straight ahead again, and took a couple of small steps back to be as close to you as possible, her ass rubbing against your crotch. Then, she opened her feet to the sides and bent fully forward to plant her hands against the mat, stretching her back. But it also gave you a prime view of that beautiful ass you were tempted to grab.

"Put your hand on the center of my back and push down, manager-nim," Zuha said. "I hope you don't mind the sweat."

You didn't mind in the slightest. Not when it came to her. To be completely honest, you could perfectly well lick every drop without objection.

Carefully, you placed the palm of your hand above Kazuha's lower waist and pressed down. Kazuha let out a low, almost inaudible moan and proceeded to stretch out on both sides, touching her toes with her fingers. A couple of seconds later, she straightened and turned around. You were so close that her body heat spread to you.

"Hold still," Kazuha said, taking a couple of steps back before bending forward again, this time keeping her back in a straight line before holding onto your waist. Her face was dangerously close to your bulge. "Do the same to my back."

You weren't sure it was necessary; she seemed to be doing all the work herself. But you didn't hesitate, placing your hand in the same position as a moment ago to apply gentle pressure. Kazuha groaned again, and you were petrified when she craned her neck slightly and pressed the tip of her nose against your bulge.

"Nakamura..." you said under your breath, but she didn't seem to hear you.

Kazuha craned her neck a little further and pressed her mouth against it before standing up again, an amused look on her face.

"Are you finished?" you asked with a glimmer of hope, feeling yourself starting to get hard.

"Almost there," Zuha replied, turning her back to you again to kneel on the mat. "Come on, behind me. Above my heels."

You sighed and obeyed, kneeling with her heels below your crotch, which was essentially rubbing against her ass. Kazuha must have sensed how hard you were, because you managed to catch a hint of a smile on her face.

"You'll do the same to my back," Zuha said, before bending her upper torso down, arms stretched out in front of her, head between them. Her ass looked delicious again under your eyes, round and firm as it was raised. Besides, the tiny shorts made part of her asscheeks peek out. If only you could pull those damn shorts down and...

With your eyes closed so as not to lose control, you placed your hand where Kazuha indicated. But this time, just to treat yourself, you pushed your hips forward a little and pressed your hard bulge fully against her ass. Kazuha moaned under her breath as she discreetly pressed her ass against you as well. She wasn't even stretching properly anymore; she only cared about whatever you were doing at the moment.

"Wah," she sighed, finally sitting back on her heels a few seconds later. "That feels so good."

"Are we done?" you asked, looking away with your hands in your lap. You had no idea why you were covering your boner if you'd already made her feel it on purpose, but you did it anyway.

"No, but all that's missing are my legs," Zuha replied. "And that's the most important thing."

"Of course it is," you said, tired.

Kazuha gestured for you to move to the side. As you did, she lay back on the mat facing you, her arms tucked into her body and her legs together. Then, she brought up a bent leg and grabbed the top of her calf to press it against her torso.

"You know what to do, right?" Kazuha asked, peeking out from behind her knee to look at you.

"You're assuming I know more than I actually do," you replied, kneeling beside her.

"Just press my thigh as far toward me as you can. It's easy."

"What if I hurt you?"

"You're not going to hurt me, silly. Come here."

You could have done that perfectly well from where you were, but Kazuha patted the opposite thigh. She wanted you to sit there, probably because it was the closest your crotches could be to each other. A meticulously malevolent being, you weren't wrong about that.

Cursing under your breath, you went and straddled her where she'd said, pressing her thigh toward her body with both of your hands. Aside from the cold sweat, her flesh felt firm beneath your fingers, the product of years and years of her ballerina training and now her workouts.

"Mmm, I think there might be a better angle for this," Kazuha murmured, and writhed beneath you to lower her position, consequently pressing your crotches together. Only then did you realize her pussy was poking through the fabric of her shorts, and your painfully hard bulge was rubbing against it.

"Fuck, Nakamura," you gasped, your fingers circling the back of her thigh. "Is this really necessary?"

"You agreed to help me, didn't you?" Zuha asked, glancing at your privates rubbing against each other.

"Yes, but..."

"Then don't complain. Now for the other leg."

You let go of her thigh so she could stretch out her leg and you could straddle her. She then brought her other leg up, and you held her thigh towards her body. The torturous process was the same. Now your cock was throbbing, and you didn't know where to look to hide your embarrassment.

"Having fun, huh?" Zuha ventured, and you knew what she meant without even looking at her.

"I think we have different concepts of what having fun is, Nakamura," you replied.

"You're wrong. It's the same for both of us. You're just more closed-minded about it than I am."

You chuckled. What a damn nerve she had, saying that.

Before you could respond, Kazuha lifted her hips and deliberately began grinding against your bulge. She even made you release her thigh so she could get better range of motion. Her crotch then began massaging your cock up and down, making you gasp.

"This is your concept of fun?" you asked, looking into her eyes.

"I don't know... you like it?" Zuha tilted her head and looked down at your bulge. She bit her lip. "No, you definitely like it. That's a silly question."

It was about to happen, you were sure of it. There was no way out. And since there wasn't, you finally dared to take a step forward.

Somewhat hesitantly, you placed your hand on Zuha's toned abdomen, then slowly lowered it until your thumb was touching her pussy. Zuha smiled, biting the tip of her tongue, and moaned when you circled near what you knew was her clit.

But just when you thought she was reaching out to return the favor, she put her hand on your abdomen and pushed you back with unexpected force. You fell onto your ass as she pulled away.

"You've got to be kidding me..." you said through gritted teeth, feeling the anger grow up within you.

"Thank you for your help, manager-nim," Zuha said, standing up. Her mischievous smile made your blood boil. "I know you must be very sleepy, so I'll let you go to bed."

"You're fucking despicable," you said as she picked up the mat, pulling it out from under you.

"And what are you gonna do about it?" Zuha raised her eyebrows, rolling up the mat. You didn't respond. "Yeah, I thought so."

Zuha then tucked the rolled-up mat under her arm and blew you a kiss before heading back the way she came, leaving you once again with a painful boner under your shorts and horny as hell. You cursed under your breath. It was partly your damn fault, for not having the balls to take charge of the situation. But what could you do? It was just common sense, since your position didn't give you the freedom to do whatever you wanted. Caution, you called it.

But your reasons for caution were running out, as was your patience. It was clear she wanted you to do something, and she wouldn't be like the other three girls, who would make their wishes clear from the start. No, Zuha wanted you to take the initiative, and she was poking you with a stick like a sleeping animal, just to see how long you could hold out until you swallowed your pride and gave in to your anger.

You had already swallowed your pride when you touched her a few moments ago. Now it only remained to see how much further your patience threshold could extend until you exploded, and that wouldn't be far.

That night you slept bitterly, not even wanting to masturbate to appease how horny you were. You would save yourself for her, for when the time came.

The next day passed peacefully. The girls had arrived from dinner in the early hours; you knew this since they woke you from your sleep just to notify you. They slept until 2 p.m., and later everyone—except for Eunchae, who went to visit her parents—was getting ready downstairs to party.

"Kim Chaewon, don't you dare turn off your phone," you warned, walking beside her as you escorted them out. Sakura, Yunjin, and Kazuha went ahead. "Keep me up to date as much as you can. I get anxious when you all go out."

Chaewon stopped and took your hand, careful not to let the others notice. That made you look at her.

"I promise to keep you updated, sweetheart," she said softly, taking a step toward you that immediately made you nervous. Her eyes landed on yours. "Stop worrying so much and trust me."

All the anxiety and worries subsided with that. A strange sense of relief washed over you through her sweet tone of voice and sparkling eyes. Hell fucking no. If you started having feelings for that girl, you were screwed.

But instead of drawing a line and making your position clear, you squeezed her hand in gratitude and gave her a small smirk. It felt good to do so, so you didn't regret it. At least not yet.

"Fine, sorry," you nodded, letting go of her hand. "What time are you planning on coming back?"

"Around 2 am," Chaewon replied. "Depends on how quickly we get in. I don't think it'll be long."

"Take care, then."

Chaewon glanced quickly at the girls, and when she confirmed they weren't looking, she stood on her tiptoes to give you a small kiss on the cheek before joining the others. The spot where her kiss fell felt warm, and now you had the emotional tide against you for not having been quick enough to avoid it.

You quickly said goodbye to the girls and followed them with your eyes as they left the house. But Zuha stopped suddenly and looked at them with a hand on her stomach and a furrowed forehead. On pure instinct, you took a couple of steps forward, worried.

"Huh? What's wrong?" Kura asked.

"Cramps," Kazuha replied, slouching slightly. "I think I need to go to the bathroom."

"Oh, we'll wait for you then."

"No, no," Zuha shook her head, putting one foot back inside the house. "I know this won't stop for a while. Go without me."

"Are you sure? You've been saying all day you needed a drink."

"I'd rather have my stomach healthy than a drink."

Kura pouted.

"As you wish," Kura took her hand in a rather motherly manner. "I'll call you later to check on you, okay?" Then she looked at you. "Manager-nim, make her some chamomile tea, will you?"

"Sure," you nodded.

Kazuha hugged the girls goodbye and closed the door herself. You stood there in the hall, waiting for her to turn to you.

"Do you need anything else?" you asked her as she walked toward you with a pained expression. "I'll make you the chamomile right away."

"I'm fine," Zuha replied, passing by you. "I just need that and rest. Thank you."

Zuha hurried up the stairs to the second floor, and you went straight to the kitchen to prepare her chamomile. Minutes later, the water was boiling, ready to put the sachet in. You would leave it for about ten minutes to let the flavor settle. While you waited, you decided to text her.

The minutes passed, and there was no response from her. You didn't find it strange; she was probably feeling really bad and had her phone away. It was best not to pressure her.

When enough time had passed, you took out the chamomile sachet and threw it in the trash. Then, you went to the fridge to find a lemon and cut it in half, to add a small splash of juice to your tea. Finally, you poured the tea into a porcelain cup and added sugar, not too much so as not to overpower the chamomile and lemon. The smell made you want to take a sip yourself.

You were about to take the cup to her when you received a message. It was her, and you almost slipped on the first few steps. There was a damn tap-to-see photo.

If you had dropped your jaw any further, you probably would have opened a hole in the floor. The photo was of her in a hot, skimpy lingerie set that you couldn't figure out how she managed to put on so quickly. It consisted mostly of interconnecting black velvet straps that ran all over her naked body, forming a triangle above her navel, from which two straps branched off on either side to connect with those that ran down to the sky-blue lace bows she had around each thigh, while the third went up to connect with the straps that circled the outline of her small tits to form a choker around her neck. The panties also consisted solely of straps, which highlighted her beautiful, perfectly shaved pussy. The icing on the cake were the lace details here and there: under her breasts, on her shoulders, the bows that encircled her thighs, and a small piece between the square formed by the straps over her pussy.

Very hot, yes. The boner had been instant. But you were overlooking something very important: that damn slut had fooled you all.

You hurriedly left the cup of chamomile tea in the kitchen and then ran to the second floor. Up there, you moved with long, impetuous strides, breathing like a rabid bull. When you reached the room Kazuha and Chaewon shared, you flung open the door and entered like an unstoppable force of nature, slamming it shut. The mythomaniac princess was on her own bed, face down, her back to the door. From there, the view of her naked ass was perfect.

Hearing you enter, Kazuha looked over her shoulder at you. She raised her calves to cross her feet and block your view of her pussy.

"I'm so fucking tired of you," you said, taking slow steps toward the bed.

"Yeah, but does this lingerie look cute  on me or nah?" Zuha asked.

That was it. You couldn't take it anymore.

Almost without thinking, you took off the sweater you were wearing and threw it on the floor, striding toward the bed. Kazuha rolled over and positioned herself on her back, just in time for you to pounce on her and crash your lips against hers.

Kazuha moaned as she received your kiss, immediately wrapping her arms around your neck and her strong legs around your torso. She arched her back, pressing your bodies together and giving you the space to slide your hands underneath. You ran your hands up and down her back, feeling every muscle beneath your fingertips. Then you moved down to her thighs, pressed on either side of your waist, squeezing and rubbing them with the palms of your hands, careful not to damage the lace of the bows.

"Mmm, you took a while," Kazuha moaned against your lips, and reached between your bodies to grasp your cock through your sweatpants and knead it. She quickly got you hard. "You even made me use my last weapon."

"Last weapon? You've been running away from me all these damn days, what the fuck did you expect me to do?" You snapped, as Kazuha pulled down your sweatpants and boxers a little, freeing your hard cock.

"Have I really been running away, manager-nim?" Zuha asked between kisses. Her fingers wrapped around your shaft, rubbing it slowly. "Or is it that you just didn't have the balls to tame me this whole time?"

Oh, so that's where it was going, huh? Good.

"You're a fucking insufferable slut," you murmured, testing the waters.

"Mmm, yes," Zuha moaned, and moved her hand faster on your cock. "Tell me that again."

"I said two things. Which one? You're more of one than the other."

"Oh come on, stop playing around, manager-nim," Zuha gasped. She really wanted you to repeat it.

"You wish I was playing around, Nakamura."

You pulled away from Kazuha's lips and went straight down to her small breasts. Kazuha inevitably had to let go of your cock to place her hands between your neck and jaw, moaning as you took one of her nipples into your mouth and licked it with the tip of your tongue. There you sucked until her mound was covered in saliva, then moved on to the next. And after attending to each breast, you decided to indulge in a kissing spree all over Kazuha's upper body: collarbone, shoulders, arms, and finally her abdomen.

Kazuha gently gripped your hair as you ran your tongue down her stomach and placed wet kisses around her navel, your hands resting on her thighs. From there, you moved down to her lower abdomen, and then to the point where the straps and lace blocked the path to her pubis. You had to lower your body further to be between her legs, but not to eat her pussy, that would have been what she wanted. Instead, you opened her legs and took them behind her knees to kiss the inside of her thighs, teasing her with a touch of her pussy but always staying mere millimeters away.

"Is this fucking revenge or what?" Zuha asked with a whimper, still even though you didn't have her so tightly in her grasp. She was right where she wanted to be. "Do you think I don't deserve to have my pussy eaten?"

"No. You don't deserve it," you replied flatly, happy just to kiss and feel her soft skin and firm muscles against your lips.

"I only got you horny twice!" she protested, as if it was nothing. "You could have done something about it, but you didn't have the balls."

"You better shut up, walking microwave," you warned, standing up to remove your sweatpants and boxers. "Don't make this any harder for yourself."

"Or what? You'll just stand there and watch me have my way again?" Zuha chuckled, but the smile faded when you spat on your cock and took the tip into her pussy. "Oh wait! Fuck!" she moaned.

Her pussy was as tight as you imagined, but it didn't take much effort to fill her stifling walls with every inch of your shaft. It felt so stupidly heavenly that you rolled your eyes with a moan.

"You've been playing with yourself today, huh?" you asked, your hands pressing her thighs back, noticing how easily your cock slid in and out of her.

"Maybe," Zuha managed to reply between soft moans. She brought a finger to her mouth and nibbled on the tip as she watched you slowly fuck her.

"You knew your plan would work out perfectly, and you prepared for when I couldn't hold it in anymore. Fucking slut."

Without realizing it you'd repeated the word, and it quickly sank into Kazuha's body. She arched her back a few inches off the mattress and placed her hand between her breasts, sliding it down her abdomen to her pussy, rubbing circles over her clit. But you were quick to grab her wrist and pull it away, bringing both hands above her head to pin them to the mattress.

"I didn't say you could do that, did I?" You raised your eyebrows, looking down at her since her face was right under yours.

At that moment, a spark seemed to ignite in Kazuha's eyes, which softened and lost the arrogance of a few minutes ago.

"You're right, daddy," Zuha purred. "You never said I could touch myself."

Well, great. Not only was it enough for Chaewon to use that little word with you, but now Kazuha would also join the club. You weren't going to complain tho. It was simpler and more fun to accept the role with open arms.

"That's a good girl," you gasped, and with both hands holding her wrists against the bed, you began to fuck her like you'd been wanting to do all these days. Hard, and rough. Above all, rough. Seeking to release all that pent-up frustration she had sown in you.

Zuha's moans began to flow freely through the room, in perfect harmony with the sound of your gradually faster thrusts. She kept her legs wide open for you, and offered no resistance to your grip on her wrists in a show of pure submission. Too bad you didn't have handcuffs handy.

Zuha begged for a kiss with her gaze, which jumped from your eyes to your lips. To please her, you flexed your arms and lowered your body, meeting her cute, parted lips. The angle now forced you to move your hips slower, but at the same time, you were hitting spots in her pussy you hadn't previously reached, causing her to stifle whimpers against your lips.

"Yes daddy," Zuha moaned. "I fucking love that, keep it up please!"

Zuha pursed her lips, closed her eyes, and arched her back, her tits now brushing against your chest. She was close to her orgasm; you could tell by the way she made a show of closing her thighs around your torso and by the way her moans faded to give way to heavy gasps. You would have allowed it with Chaewon, but you weren't going to be so forgiving with her after she'd made your life miserable for so many days. So just when she thought she was about to cum, you released her wrists and pulled out of her.

"Daddy, no!" Zuha protested. Her eyes filled with tears. "No, please! Let me cu-"

Her protests fell short of nothing when you knelt to her left, grabbed the back of her neck, and guided your cock into her mouth. Kazuha took it with a whimper, but hollowed her cheeks as she pumped her head and sucked on your cock.

"I decide when you can cum," you said, brushing her hair behind her ears and then tying it back into a ponytail with your left hand. "Is that clear?"

Zuha looked up at you as she pumped halfway into your cock and nodded. You let her do the work at first, just to give your lower body a rest, and she was doing an excellent job with her mouth and tongue. She took you out for short periods of time to lick your tip and kiss your shaft all over, trying to please you enough to soften you up. It almost worked. But before she could continue, you made her stop so you could take control and fuck her mouth.

"Be a good girl and take all that cock for daddy," you panted as you pushed a few more inches into her mouth. It didn't fit all of it: you soon ran into the natural barrier that made her gag. But it was more than enough. "Oh fuck yes."

With one hand in Zuha's makeshift ponytail and the other on the right side of her neck, you began pumping your hips back and forth at a steady pace, getting faster as the seconds ticked by. You could tell Zuha wasn't used to that sort of thing, but she was enjoying it despite her gag reflex triggering over and over again and making a mess of her own saliva.

Soon your thrusts became aggressive and frantic, causing the pool of saliva building up inside Zuha's mouth to soak your cock and spill in thick drops onto her small tits. Zuha didn't bother asking for a break, whether out of pride or to show you she was a good girl. Either way, you gave her a hard time when you pushed her head down onto the base of your cock. She gripped your thighs out of inertia, closing her eyes as you nuzzled your tip into her throat. A few seconds later, you were forced to pull out when Zuha started coughing.

"Now it's not so fun leaving me hanging, huh?" you asked, letting go of her hair and neck. Zuha's head fell and bounced against the mattress as she coughed.

"If I hadn't, you wouldn't be like this right now," Zuha gasped, coughing again. Then she grabbed your cock and moved her hand over it slowly, not caring that it would get drenched in the thick layer of saliva covering your shaft. "It's perfect."

You pulled out of her and went back between her legs to lie on your stomach, wrap your arms around her thighs, and finally plant your mouth on her pussy. Zuha arched her back and sighed in relief, as if she'd been wanting it for a long time—which she probably had. The case wasn't much different for you: tasting that delicious meat dish went straight to your deepest fantasies, repressed by what you thought was the harsh reality of never being able to achieve it. But now you couldn't be anything but grateful for the twists of fate, because her folds were so soft and delicious that in a normal situation it would have taken an entire construction crew to pry you away.

"I thought I didn't deserve you eating my pussy," Zuha said, stroking your hair.

"Let's just say you've done enough to earn it," you replied, and proceeded to go up to her clit.

"Also to cum?" she asked, but you didn't respond.

Following the canons established by your past fantasies about her, you ate her pussy as if it were the last chance you'd ever have. A little over a minute passed when, in the same characteristic pattern, Zuha was about to cum. You continued as if you knew nothing, with a relentless emphasis on her clit. You took her to the very limit.

Close...

Close...

Until you rose up to leave her pussy and let her orgasm hang.

"Oh my god, no!" Zuha whimpered, desperately trying to grab you and return you to her pussy, but you slipped away. "Please daddy, no!"

"I said you deserved me to eat your pussy," you said, grabbing her left leg behind the knee to push it back and insert two fingers into her pussy. Zuha whimpered. "I never said anything about cumming."

"And how do you expect me not to cum if you do that?" Zuha asked, as you began pumping your fingers in and out of her.

"That's your problem, not mine."

"But-!" Zuha bit out a protest as your fingers sped up. She had to take a moment to gather her words. "But daddy, I'm so close! I can't hold it!"

"Yes you can, and you'll be able to," you threatened, your left hand fingers digging into the back of her thigh. Your fingers were fucking her wet pussy fast. "So don't you fucking dare cum until I tell you to."

"But I want to cum!" Zuha whimpered, her hands clutching the sheet. Tears pooled in her eyes again, and one trickled down her cheek. "Please!!"

"Stop whining like a brat and hold it!" you snorted.

Another tear or two trickled down Zuha's cheeks as she looked everywhere but down. She brought a hand to her mouth to stifle her screams, and bit down on that same hand when it balled into a fist. Her breathing, on the other hand, showed how desperate she was, as her chest rose and fell like a bellows about to burst. It was admirable, to be honest. In her position, you wouldn't have lasted two seconds.

"Please!!" Zuha insisted, now truly crying because of the way her lower lip trembled.

"A little more..." you said under your breath, staring at her. Your wrist was starting to tire. "Hold on... Now cum, slut."

Zuha exploded with such force that she tore the sheets off their edges and let out a scream so loud you were sure it could have been heard on the street at that time of night. Her violent orgasm was accompanied by a pleasant surprise: an intense jet of squirt that you let out freely as you pulled your fingers out of her, soaking her buttocks, the sheets, and part of your knee.

"What a good girl," you praised her, watching her thighs tremble. "You made a whole damn mess tho."

Zuha looked at you with tear-filled eyes, arms open at her sides. She hadn't bothered to wipe her cheeks. Her buttocks and thighs were soaked with drops of squirt.

"Keep fucking me, daddy, please," she said in a small voice, bringing two fingers to her pussy, rubbing them a few times between her folds, and then bringing them to her mouth to suck on her own fluids. "I can handle it like the good girl I am."

"Let's put that to the test then. Turn around."

Zuha rolled over and onto her stomach. Her sweet spot, that firm, round ass, was now entirely at your disposal. You placed your hands underneath her and made her raise her hips. She got the message and spread her knees to the sides, lifted her ass, and arched her back, leaving only her chest and hands against the mattress. It was the perfect backshot position, and the damn lingerie still intact only made it much better.

Without wasting time, you grabbed your cock and drove it into her pussy, in a single smooth motion that made you both moan in unison. Her pussy walls embraced your cock from all directions, squeezing it hard and warming her up. Zuha, with her head resting on her crossed arms, looked over her shoulder and locked eyes with you. Then you, with your hands on her waist, began to fuck her.

Going slow at first was something you did on purpose, mainly to feel every possible texture of her pussy in detail, but also to admire the view of her perfect raised ass with a cock constantly disappearing between her butt cheeks. But that soon became insufficient for you. So you made a sudden change of gear.

"Mmmgh, does my pussy feel good when you fuck it like that, daddy?" Zuha whimpered, now being pounded and jolted by your thrusts.

"It must feel better for you, right?" you asked through gritted teeth, and you slapped her left butt cheek before squeezing it. "This is what you've been wanting for days."

"Oh, you have no idea," Zuha replied with a sigh. "I haven't been able to stop imagining how well that cock could fill me up ever since Kura-chan told me everything."

"That damn snitch," you grumbled.

"Thanks to that damn snitch, you're fucking me hard from behind like a whore, don't forget that. Mmmgh!!"

You gripped her waist with your fingers tightly gripped and your pelvis collided with her ass with hard slaps. Zuha opened her arms from under her head and extended them to the sides, elbows bent, to crumple the sheets between her fingers. She understood that she no longer had any restrictions on cumming, and she did so after a few brief seconds.

But you felt in perfect shape to continue, nowhere near cumming even though your engine was revving at full power and she looked that hot. 

Zuha squealed in despair as you continued your thrusts through her orgasm. Now you had one hand on her bare, muscular back, and seconds later you reached up to grab a handful of her long, black hair and pull her head back. She came again after a few seconds, and the spasms forced her to drop her hips back onto the mattress. Your cock inevitably slipped out of her pussy.

"Do you need a break?" you asked, slipping out of character a little since she looked exhausted.

"I appreciate your concern, but no," Zuha replied, bringing her legs together so her buttocks squeezed against each other. "I said I could take it. So don't be so kind to me, daddy."

"Well, if you insist..."

You straddled her thighs and guided your cock between her buttocks, rubbing it between them before returning to her pussy. As you went back inside her, you leaned forward to lie flat on top of her, grabbing her chin to turn her head and kiss her. Zuha moaned against your lips as you fucked her with slow, deep strokes.

After kissing her for some long seconds, you braced your hands against the mattress and lifted yourself up to move harder, thrusting up and down. Zuha dropped her head and let the right side of her face rest against the mattress.

"Oh, daddy, you're filling me up so good," Zuha moaned, glancing at you. She reached out and found a pillow to hold onto. "I can't wait to feel all that hot, sticky load inside me..."

"Can you stand up?" you asked between gasps. "There's a particular way I'd like to do it."

"I think I know what you mean," Zuha nodded. "Let's do whatever you want, daddy."

You immediately pulled off her and helped her stand up off the bed. Her wobbly legs made you hesitate about whether it was a good idea or not, but she didn't seem close to giving in to them. And instead of complaining, Zuha did her iconic Antifragile leg lift as soon as you stood between the beds, only instead of lowering it back again, she rested it against your left shoulder and let her calf fall behind your back.

"Oh... my... god," you said to yourself, amazed not only by Zuha's flexibility, but also by the stamina she had in her support leg and how hot her pussy looked.

"Is this what you had in mind, daddy?" Zuha asked, one hand on your chest and the other resting against the wall for balance.

"Oh, that's perfect," you nodded, placing your hand on her thigh to rub up and down while the other rubbed her abs. "Are you sure you can hold yourself like this?"

"I can," she agreed. "But you'd better hurry or my legs might give out on me."

Without needing to say anything else, you grabbed your cock and guided it back inside her. The sensation was completely different now: it was tighter inside her, much tighter. It was like putting your cock between two damn hydraulic presses that threatened to crush it. And god, it felt fucking delicious. If you thought your climax was still far off before, you had to reconsider that now, because as soon as you started fucking her in that position, your body entered a state of ecstasy you'd rarely felt in your life, as if all your blood was flowing faster to give you a surge of energy.

For Zuha it felt just as good, or at least that's how it seemed from the way she moaned louder than she had a moment ago and dug her natural nails into your abdomen. Her legs didn't seem close to giving way, but it got really tough for her when she came again, and her supporting leg wobbled. You held onto the leg she had draped over you as tightly as you could, keeping her from falling to the floor. In the process the lace bow on her thigh loosened, but the straps were intact.

Zuha's solution was as simple as it was perfect: she sacrificed the balance the wall gave her to press herself against her own leg and clung to your neck with her arms, so that her head was next to her knee and your faces were inches from each other. Of course, you kissed her, concentrating entirely on how good her pussy felt amidst such hard, fast thrusts.

After a moment, you entered the downward spiral. One thrust after another against that tight pussy with every inch of your shaft, Zuha's moans against your lips, your bodies now sweaty. It all resulted in the most mind-melting and electrifying orgasm you'd experienced to date.

"Oh my fucking god!" you moaned, shooting spurt after spurt of thick cum into that tight Japanese ballerina pussy.

"Oh daddy that feels so good," Zuha sighed, letting her head fall back. Her fingers gripped the back of your neck. "Actually I think I'm going to... Mmmgh!!"

Zuha went through her own sensual orgasm as you emptied your balls inside her and felt her muscles and pussy contract. You kissed her long, luscious neck, still moaning to yourself until your climax subsided. Then you stayed like that for a while, balls deep inside her and holding her close to catch your breath.

"You came a lot, daddy..." Zuha whispered in your ear. "You've been saving yourself for me, haven't you? That's adorable..."

"I'd rather not answer, Nakamura," you replied, placing more kisses on her neck and jawline. "All I know is that you're so fucking hot."

Zuha pulled you in for another kiss, this time slower and more passionate, and gave you a gentle push back to ease you out of her. You both looked down to see your cum spilling onto the carpeted floor beneath your feet.

"You know this floor is a fucking pain to clean, right?" you asked.

"It's not like you clean it regularly," Zuha retorted.

"And neither do you."

"Yeah anyway," Zuha looked up and met your gaze. "Will you sleep with me for a while, daddy?"

"Just a little while," you nodded. "Do you want me to help you take all that stuff off?"

"Oh yeah, please," she sighed. "Putting it on was a pain in the ass."

"No surprise there."

Zuha pulled away from you and sat on the edge of her bed. You helped her remove the entire piece of lingerie, being careful not to pinch her with the straps. It wasn't until Zuha was completely naked that she lay down on the bed, facing the wall, with her back to you. And as soon as you lay down next to her, she pushed her ass back to be your little spoon. The mattress didn't have a sheet, as she'd pulled it out from the edges while you were fucking her, and it was all wrinkled in one corner, so you could snuggle up comfortably to close your eyes.

But you couldn't afford to get too comfortable and sleep too much. Zuha still had a lie to maintain, and if Chaewon caught you there, it was going to be a huge mess for her. So you never really got to sleep.

After a couple of hours, you woke Zuha up, and together you set about making the bed and cleaning as much as you could. By the time the girls returned, everything was in perfect natural order: Zuha asleep in her bed in comfy clothes, and you lying on your couch.

No one ever suspected a thing.

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