Hyun stares at the clothes laid out on the bed.

He can hear Wumuti singing softly to herself in the shower, through the closed door to the ensuite bathroom. The sun is setting outside the tall windows, throwing warm, orange-pink light onto the creamy white of the duvet.

Hands a little shaky, Hyun pulls out his phone and carefully searches up each item of clothing, making a mental tally in his head as he goes. He does this every single time Wumuti buys him a new outfit before they go to dinner, or to the club, or to brunch with Wumuti's friends. Shirt, pants, shoes. Necklace, still in its little velvet box.

This date is worth nine million won to her, he thinks. I'm worth nine million.

He hears the shower turn off, Wumuti's voice getting a little clearer as she opens the door, ensconced in a plush white robe and hair wrapped up in a microfiber towel. Her cheeks are flushed with the heat. She frowns a little when she sees that he still hasn't changed.

"Is there something wrong with them?" she asks, crossing over to her closet where her chosen dress sparkles on its hanger. "I can pick something different."

"No!" Hyun chokes out. "No, I mean… you bought them for me, right? I should wear them."

She hums noncommittally, her back turned to him so he can't see her expression. He has to guess, and it makes him nervous, every time. He looks back at the clothes, lying innocuously across the bed.

See, the first thing is:

When Hyun met Wumuti, it was at the fancy tapas bar where Hyun had picked up some work during the summer after his second year of college. He wasn't particularly good at being a waiter, but customers generally seemed charmed rather than annoyed when he fucked up a little bit. His friend Haru complained that it was just because he was hot and kind of pathetic, and it made rich women want to throw money at him. Hyun always just shrugged, grateful that he had a job at all.

Wumuti had been one of those women. He'd seen her regularly throughout that summer; she'd often come with friends but sometimes she came alone. Hyun always felt self-conscious eating in restaurants by himself but she seemed to have no compunctions about it. If he had her table, he'd linger a little bit longer than he technically had to — she was funny, and nice, and beautiful. And she always left a tip for him, even though this was a place fancy enough to have gratuity built into the bill.

He was sure that she wasn't much older than him, her face completely uncreased and her fashion always on-trend; he was shocked one day to find out that she was a full fifteen years his senior and a decade into her career.

"You're just flattering me," she'd said, laughing, looking at him with an intensity that made him go warm all over. He felt important, in a strange way, that a woman as accomplished and worldly as her was spending her evenings and her attention on someone like him.

When he'd confided in her that he'd be leaving the restaurant to focus on school, and that she'd really helped him out because he finally had enough put away to cover rent for the year, and thank you so much… she'd pouted.

"I'll miss seeing you," she said, idly stirring her half-finished espresso with its tiny little spoon. "You're the only reason I come here, you know."

He'd spluttered, flustered, and she laughed, hiding her smile behind the elegant splay of her fingers. After she'd left, and Hyun opened the check back up, he nearly collapsed. Written there on the little line was a tip for twice the amount on the bill — and a note with Wumuti's number on it.

I'd like to see you again, and continue to take care of you. No pressure. Best wishes for the new semester.

And it led him here, through a series of dreamlike dates and conversations and bank transfers. Through meeting Wumuti's friends, accompanying her on work trips, getting fucked in her double-king bed. Going places he'd never even think of going on his own.

Here, staring at the clothes laid out before him, apprehension stirring in his chest. Wumuti's already slipped into her dress and taken a seat at her makeup table, tapping some kind of serum into her cheeks. She glances back at him in the mirror.

"Really, baby, you don't have to wear them," she says, waving a hand dismissively. "It's not a big deal."

So, here's the second thing:

Over the course of the year that they've had this arrangement, his outfits have been changing. It's slow enough, and subtle enough, that for a while it was hard to put a name to the pattern. One day, it was velvet pants instead of wool. The next, the sleeves of his new shirt billowed a little bit, cinched at the wrists with a mother-of-pearl button. A couple outfits later, the necklace she placed around his neck was thin and delicate, the pendant glittering with purple and pink stones and matching the equally delicate bracelets she fixed around each wrist.

Today, it's a relatively non-descript dress shirt made of off-white crepe with smooth, silver buttons. When he holds it in his hands, it's feather-light and cool. What he can't stop staring at is the long, black skirt that lays next to it. The material is light and pleated, and there are multiple layers to it, giving it a geometric shape. It's chic and fashionable. It cost two million won.

With a glance up at Wumuti, who's currently blow-drying her crimson hair, he begins to strip down. He folds his clothes as he takes them off — hoodie and jeans and t-shirt — and sets them on the bed.

The skirt slides up his legs smoothly, its wide elastic waistband sitting comfortably around his waist. The hem is asymmetrical, falling midway down his calf on one side and nearly to his ankle on the other. He glances at the full-length mirror on the wall and breathes a sigh of relief — it's really not so different to the wide-legged palazzo pants that he sometimes sees way-more fashionable guys wearing. It's hard to tell that it's even a skirt unless he stands with his legs spread, which he does for a second before he feels too stupid and focuses on putting his shirt on.

It's not until he's tucking the hem of the shirt into his waistband, fiddling with the drape of it, that he feels Wumuti's eyes on him. He glances over to find her simply watching, perched on her stool and one leg delicately crossed over the other. She smiles at him, lips now a glossy pink; grabbing something out of her jewelry box, she crosses the room to stand behind him.

"Here," she says, and reaches around to settle a necklace around his throat. When she pulls away, he sees that it's a delicate string of pearls, so light that he barely feels it at all. It matches the pearls dangling from Wumuti's ears; he wonders if it was a set, originally, split between the two of them. It makes something warm simmer in his gut.

"You look beautiful," he says, because it's always a safe thing to say. It's always true. She beams at him, her expression visible in the mirror, over his shoulder. Her hands slide around to settle over his stomach, warm through the fabric.

"You, too," she replies, her voice buzzing close to his ear. "If I'm not careful dressing you, you'll be prettier than me."

Something about the statement makes him shiver; Wumuti's the only one who's ever called him pretty, and she always sounds like she really means it.

(And here's the third thing: Hyun doesn't usually date women. He likes them, theoretically, but women tend to want things from him that he just can't give. He feels comfortable and safe under the lights of a gay bar, under the hands of men even taller than he is, who will treat him roughly, exactly how he craves. Men who make him feel small, and taken care of. He had a girlfriend once, right after high school, and she was smart and sweet, and yet — he felt adrift in a sea of social cues he just didn't understand, cramming himself into a mold that he didn't fit. He isn't built for it.

And don't misunderstand him — Wumuti is the perfect woman, has never been anything else to him. But when they go out, she offers her arm for him to take. She makes the reservations, the purchases, the decisions. She makes him feel small, despite his height and build, in a safe way. There's nothing for him to fuck up and no room to disappoint.)

She clicks her tongue and tells him to stay still while she goes to her makeup table and retrieves a little plastic eyeshadow tray.

"Close your eyes," she says, and he obeys readily; there's the pressure of her thumb passing over his eyelids, one after the other, and then over the line of his cheekbones. When he looks back in the mirror, there's a subtle shimmer where she'd touched. It makes him look delicate in a way he rarely feels.

"Thank you," he says, though he's not sure why. It just feels like what he should say.

Wumuti kisses him lightly on the cheek, so as not to transfer too much gloss. "Come on, we'll be late."

—

Wumuti's mouth still tastes like sake as she guides him through the apartment, her hands on his waist.  She backs him up, step by step, over the threshold of her bedroom until the backs of his knees hit the bed. The breath catches hard in Hyun's chest as he sits, allowing Wumuti to cup his face in her hands. She smiles down at him, at once sweet and hungry.

"Gorgeous," she says, and kneels down on the carpet. Her hands slide under the bottom of the skirt to curl around his calves. "I'm so lucky."

"Oh." He can feel his face heating. His leg twitches when her thumb brushes the ticklish skin just below his kneecap. She smiles and does it again, teasing; he clutches at the duvet and forces himself to be still. Despite her position on her knees, gazing up at him, she somehow maintains her control over him, over everything.

"Baby," she says, and rests her face on his thigh. "Can noona eat you out?"

God, yeah. The anticipation rolls through him in molten-hot waves, from his cheeks to the tips of his toes. He nods, not frantic yet but knowing that soon she'll draw it out of him. She beams, eyes crinkling up with pleasure at his easy acquiescence.

He starts to lift his hips, to take the skirt off, but Wumuti stops him. Her smile is coy.

"No," she says, soft and lilting, "keep it on."

She reaches further up, nails trailing past his knees to scrape down the insides of his thighs. He jolts, trembles with the effort it takes to remain still; she does it again, and again. It would be soothing if he wasn't so sensitive, so on-edge and so turned on. He can feel himself getting hard, leaking, his dick pressing against his tight briefs.

Holding his gaze, she rubs her thumb over his dick, just enough to feel the growing wet spot. Her eyes sparkle with delight as he sucks his lip into his mouth.

"Already so wet," she says. "You're so ready, aren't you?"

Hyun breathes out sharp through his nose and nods again; he knows that if he opens his mouth, something embarrassing will come out. It's something he's always been self-conscious about — how wet he gets, and how fast — but Wumuti seems to relish in it. Always tells him how much she likes it.

"Ask me," she demands, rubbing circles into the line of his hips. He looks down, trying to avoid the intensity of her gaze, but it only draws his attention to the faint line of his erection against the skirt. The way he can see her hands moving under the fabric, just the vague shapes of her knuckles. It makes him feel strange, almost like... Like he's being violated, somehow. He imagines, for a split second, that they're still out to dinner and how it would feel to have her hand up his skirt in public. To have to stay still, pretty, polite with her fingers hidden underneath.

He lets go of his lip, runs his tongue over it to feel the indentations of his own teeth. He knows exactly what she wants and how she wants to hear it, even though it's hard for him — maybe especially because of that.

"Please eat me out, noona," he manages, eyes still fixed on his lap.

She hums and leans forward, sliding her hands around to dig her nails into the meat of his ass. He nearly chokes at the feeling of one of her fingers pressing against his hole through the fabric of his briefs, rubbing gently and sending tiny jolts of sensation up his spine.

"Unnie," she says, gently, and Hyun doesn't comprehend the word for a long moment before he realizes that it's a correction. His stomach drops, like a small but sudden dip in a rollercoaster. She's never asked for this before.

But he wants to give Wumuti whatever she wants. Whatever she's offering, he wants it. So he draws a shaky breath and asks,

"Please, unnie?"

Wumuti's smile grows sharp, her pink lips drawn wide over her perfect teeth. She squeezes, spreading him apart for a split second before she hooks her fingers in his underwear.

"Of course," she says, drawing them down his legs, "of course I will, sweetheart."

Hyun's chest tightens when she makes no further move to strip him. He watches, breathless, as she grabs the hem of the skirt and pushes it up to gather around his knees, the material just stretchy enough to accommodate when she spreads his legs to situate herself between.

And then she ducks underneath the skirt. He jolts as if he's been electrocuted, one hand immediately flying to feel at her head where it tents the fabric. Unseen, her hair brushes against his dick as she slowly kisses up his thigh, nipping and sucking and tonguing at the crease of his hip.

He falls back on his elbows, weak and wanting, as she nudges him to tilt his hips up, to allow her access. A raw sound tears out of his throat when she spreads him again, the sharp tips of her nails digging into the fat and muscle, and licks slowly over his hole. Nothing makes him more desperate than this, the sensation compounding with the way Wumuti gets messy and rough with him. His fingers curl in the duvet, seeking something to clutch since he can't get his fingers in her hair.

He forces his eyes open to look down his body; Wumuti's head is a formless shape under the black fabric, only her back and shoulders visible to him. Something about being unable to see her makes it worse, makes him more sensitive. He worries, hysterically, whether he's getting pre-cum in her hair. The noises she makes are sloppy, satisfied, and loud enough that the fabric doesn't fully muffle them.

He'd feel less exposed if he were naked, he thinks. Something about this position, the way the skirt provides some perverted sense of modesty. He wonders if this is how girls are supposed to feel, walking this line between obscene and chaste, hiding vulgarity under layers of fabric. Letting someone defile them, out of sight. He chokes on the idea, feels it crawling up his throat: he's letting his unnie ruin him. Letting her have him.

"Unnie, please," he gasps, and clenches down at the feeling of her thumb rubbing at his perineum, her tongue flickering over his rim. He can't come from this, they both know that, but he wants to, desperately.

He whines when Wumuti pauses, pressing one last kiss to his hole, humming so the vibrations shoot up his spine. Slowly, she begins to extricate herself from under the skirt. When she emerges, her hair is all over the place, puffy with static. With a shaky hand, Hyun reaches out to run his fingers through it, trying to smooth it out. She leans into the touch, smiling.

"You probably want me to fuck you, don't you?" she says, syrupy sweet.

He does, and badly. He wants it all the time, so much that Wumuti pokes fun at him about it. He can't deny it to her, not when she keeps her strap-on in the bedside drawer now, just for him.

"Yeah," he says. "I want it."

"Say it," Wumuti orders, and crawls up on the bed, pressing him down flat. "Say, 'please fuck me, unnie.'"

Hyun obeys, the words slipping easily from him. Wumuti tilts her head, her eyes glinting. Her hand slips up under his shirt to curl around his ribs, warm and possessive, her acrylics digging into his back. His hands lie limp by his sides.

"Say, 'my pussy is so empty,'" she demands, studying his face like he's a bug under a microscope.

He's light-headed. He's never thought, never considered… But Wumuti's right. He feels so, so empty without her. It doesn't matter what she wants to call it — he'll say whatever she wants if only she'll fill him up.

"My—" He chokes on the word, then forces it out. "My pussy is so empty."

Wumuti laughs. Her thumb skids over his nipple, under the shirt; she squeezes the meat of his pec, and he's once again hit with the sinking, dizzying feeling that he's being violated. She's groping him, feeling him up, her hand out of sight under the gauzy fabric of his shirt. It's pornographic, all the more obscene for the fact that she's still fully-dressed, too; the only thing she's taken from him is his underwear, discarded on the floor.

"You'd say anything for me right now," Wumuti teases, groping him roughly. With her other hand, she hikes his skirt up to his thighs. "Isn't that right?"

He nods and wraps a leg around her waist, hoping that she's satisfied and will finally get inside him. He digs his teeth into his bottom lip so hard it stings.

"You've been so good, I'll give you what you want, I promise," she coos. "Say, 'thank you, unnie.'"

That one's easy. "Thank you, unnie," he mumbles, drowning in the heated look she gives him as she pulls her hands away and leans over to her bedside table.

Out of the drawer, she grabs her strap and a bottle of lube. It's his favorite, big enough to feel satisfying but slim enough that he can take it without any prep. Wumuti likes fingering him, when the opportunity arises, but she has a fancy, custom acrylic set on right now that he knows she won't ruin.

She stands, briefly, to slip out of her dress; the fabric slithers down her body and pools on the ground, followed by her underwear. Her chest is flushed and bare, and Hyun wants to touch her so badly it aches. He watches her step into the harness and tighten it around her hips.

He breathes out, shaky, as she gets back up on the bed, shoving her way between his legs. She pushes his skirt up around his hips, finally exposing him to the cool air. He can't begin to consider what kind of picture he makes, or he'll combust.

"Oh, my good girl," she murmurs, hands sliding up the insides of his thighs to expose him further. "You are empty, huh?"

He nods, almost frantic. He is, he really is, and he'll be anything Wumuti wants as long as she'll put it in him. His vision is going a little fuzzy at the edges, he wants so badly.

Sometimes, in this bed, he feels like he becomes a different person. Wumuti coaxes out someone lewder, nastier, more willing to debase himself or beg and plead in a voice that doesn't sound like him. More willing to say things he's mortified to remember, afterwards.

Things like:

"Please. I'm ready." He can feel himself trembling. "I'm— I'm so wet for you."

Wumuti's mouth falls open in surprise, her eyes filling with a wicked glee. She grins, digs her nails into his skin.

"I should give my princess what she wants, then," she says.

It makes Hyun feel like he's burning up from the inside out. He's heard jokes about being a pillow princess, but he knows that's not what Wumuti means. She teases, but it's sincere — he really is her princess, to spoil and dress up exactly how she wants. He has a split-second, world-shaking vision of himself, debauched, in a huge dress that swallows him up with tulle and ruffles and satin. It's so outlandish that it must be a vision of someone else; but he knows that if he asked, Wumuti would give it to him, and gladly.

Wumuti grabs the bottle of lube and slicks up her strap. Her movements are quick, with an edge of desperation that makes Hyun feel a little less crazy. She guides his legs to wrap around her waist again, smearing lube on the skirt with careless hands.

He wails when her strap begins to press into him; she doesn't stop to check if he's okay, just moves slowly, inexorably forward until she's fully seated inside him. He likes it like that, knowing that she won't stop until she's forced herself all the way in, no matter how his body protests.

"Noona," he gasps, brain already scrambled, "Muti, unnie, it feels—"

"Feels good, princess? What you wanted?" She begins to move, slow drags out and sharp pistons in. Her nails dig into his thighs, sharp points of pain against the brain-melting pleasure.

"Yeah," he manages, "feels so good, feels so good."

She leans back on her hands, snaps her hips harder. Each thrust punches embarrassing new sounds out of him, like she's got her hands around his lungs and stomach and heart, squeezing to see how long it'll take him to pop.

"Pretty girl," Wumuti breathes, studying him so intently that he can feel it even with his eyes shut. "Beautiful. You like when I dress you up?"

He doesn't respond right away, so she slaps his thigh sharply. He winces, and wriggles.

"Yeah," he manages, "yeah, I like it—"

"I'll give you anything," she says, her breath coming heavy. "Anything. My princess, my perfect barbie doll, I have so much planned for you."

Hyun can barely think through the haze of pleasure and the gut-wrenching rhythm. The skirt must be ruined now, by his sweat. He shudders.

"Tell me, please, unnie," he begs. She's so smart, so talented, so beautiful. He wants to know.

"God," she chokes out, and leans forward again, hands under his lower back to make him arch, drive her deeper. "Pink latex. A whole suit, cover you in it but it won't hide anything. And heels so high you could barely walk."

He drinks in the fantasy, thirsty for it. For her regard, her vision. He wants it, almost as much as he wants her to keep fucking him at that angle, right there, yes.

"Maybe a- a school uniform, skirt too short. Sneak my hand under and make you keep quiet. Such a slut."

She groans like it's real, like she's seeing it superimposed over the straining shape of his body. He can imagine it so vividly he can feel the fabric — the knee-high socks, the flimsy blouse, the way her hand would feel on him. Out of sight, perverted. He's going to come.

"Or, a corset," she continues, her nails scraping down his chest. "A real one, and I'll pull the laces so tight you won't be able to breathe, and fuck you just like that. Oh, pretty girl, you'll look so small."

Hyun comes, then, so hard and so sudden that he nearly blacks out. He chokes, struggling for air, the wisps of Wumuti's fantasy dissipating around him as he shoots up his stomach. His cum soaks into the gauzy fabric of his shirt, staining it translucent.

She keeps fucking him through it until he's tender and hurting. Her hips still, her strap still buried inside him. He can't move. Can barely think.

She jostles him as she fights to get out of the harness without pulling out, loosening the straps just enough to get at her own clit. She handles herself roughly, frantic movement until she's throwing her head back and coming with a drawn-out, gasping moan.

She's so beautiful, Hyun thinks, blinking through unshed tears to watch her as her chest heaves and her shoulders curl in.  She's so beautiful, and she wants... he wants...

"Fuck," Wumuti says, emphatically, and leans back heavily on her hands, catching her breath.  Her hair sticks to her forehead with sweat. She wiggles her hips, jostling the dildo still halfway inside him.  "You want this out?"

He finds that he doesn't.  He wants to stay right here, feeling like this, forever.  But he can't say that, so he just shakes his head.  It makes her coo at him before she wriggles the rest of the way out of the harness and off the bed, standing and stretching her arms above her head.  She's always recovered quickly after sex, always full of energy.

"I'm going to shower," she says, taking her earrings out and crossing over to her vanity to place them in a little ceramic dish.  Her hair is mussed, her makeup smudged, but it only makes her prettier.  A pang goes through Hyun's chest that's impossible to name.

"Okay," he manages.  I love you, he doesn't say. She smiles widely at him, leaning down to kiss his sweaty forehead on her way out the door.  He hears the shower turn on a few moments later, the soft sound of her voice as she sings just audible over the spray.

All of a sudden, he's shivering, excruciatingly aware of how damp his clothes are.  Grimacing, he pulls the dildo out of him and fights the fabric off his body.  He finds it in himself to stand, to pick up each piece of his outfit and place it in the laundry hamper.  She'll know better than he does how best to take care of them.

He's still cold, and so he walks over to her closet (and when did he start feeling comfortable enough for that?), looking for a robe or a pair of sweatpants.

Hyun finds himself staring at the wild tangle of patterns and fabrics hanging innocuously in front of him.  Dresses and skirts and sharp pantsuits.  Lingerie and fetishwear. Rows and rows of shoes.

If she really wants that, he tells himself, she'll say so. She always seems to know what he wants, what he needs, and he trusts her perhaps more than she knows. Maybe next time, she'll lay out something pretty for him.

He finds a worn pair of pajama pants and gets back in bed just in time for her to emerge, flushed from the steam. She smiles widely at him, dropping her towel to climb into bed next to him, her warm, naked body pressing up against him. Her hand skims over his chest, down to rest flat on his stomach.

"Hi, princess," she whispers.