On the Bed (2)
Slurp.
Slick.
Slurp.
Lick.
Technically, I could have kept my tongue quiet, mixed it with his in silence.
I chose not to.
I wanted it louder. More obscene.
Which meant more stimulating.
All of it aimed at the man in front of me.
So that even with another woman in his arms, his head would be filled with me and me alone.
So that the other woman sitting back there, already giving up, wouldn't get another chance.
My first impression of this man hadn't been bad.
The way he'd stood up in the debates and laid out his thoughts and arguments was decent enough.
And when the world changed, when I felt the full weight of an age where I couldn't own a single man outright and would have to share him, something in my gut went taut with certainty.
Move faster than anyone else.
So I scraped together every connection I had and tried, again and again, to meet men privately — and failed, spectacularly and completely.
Even pushing through every acquaintance, every relationship I could leverage, I couldn't track down a single person who could arrange a meeting with the male side. And the rare time one was arranged, the men themselves shut it down cold.
Well. Once, maybe once, it seemed possible. That fell through too.
I despaired.
Because in my experience, men were not creatures you could judge from fragments of information.
Oh wow, this one's a doctor.
Rich, too.
Seems kind.
Tall.
Competent at his job.
Men introduced to me with glowing résumés like that, men I sought out myself — behind every one of them lurked an endless supply of complete lunatics.
And now I was supposed to pick a man using nothing but a government-issued physical profile, a few lines of career data, and interview footage released to the public?
So the man who caught my eye was this one.
A man with the nerve to stand before the entire nation as a representative of all men and speak his mind.
Confidence had radiated from his eyes, his movements, his words.
Not that I'd know.
After nearly eight months without seeing a single man in the flesh — where the only footage available was station-produced interviews, which I watched on loop — my eye for men might well have rotted clean away.
So, half in surrender, I applied. His profile numbers were passable, after all.
Height, 180 centimeters.
No history of serious illness.
A face somewhere between handsome and ordinary.
He seemed like the best man within my ability to judge — and I told myself that if he turned out to be trash, I'd simply become a concubine and suck up to whoever won. What else could I do?
If I failed to conceive, I'd be reduced to a woman he'd fucked once, pushed back to the end of a line with no guarantee it would ever come around again. But so what?
A man with no women at all — like now — was far easier to seduce than a man with a hundred.
If he were some pitifully aroused stud fumbling toward whichever women were slightly lesser than me and threw himself at every one of them, having rivals might actually help. That wasn't this situation.
This was the kind of situation where women prettier than me were swarming the men.
Which meant every hour that passed, the game tilted further against me.
And so, after clawing through brutal competition and a first date strewn with incident after incident, our first real meeting had been the absolute worst.
I had pressed in on purpose, testing him — and pressed some other woman's meltdown button instead, touching off a disaster.
The man who'd been smiling when we first met lost his smile, went back to the bench, and refused to so much as glance our way.
Just as I slipped away to try approaching again, the whole atmosphere flipped.
Fast, precise — he calmed the chaos, then eliminated the cause of the fight entirely.
Even though I was the one who'd started it.
Heheh.
Then he stepped forward, decided everything himself, and brought us here to the hotel. All the way to now.
Was this a pleasant miscalculation on my part?
Or had my instincts been right all along?
The man I'd caught seemed... genuinely good.
He even looked handsome, suddenly?
Should I tell him to try a different hairstyle?
And with that, the turn of the woman who'd gone first came to an end.
What was her name again?
Whatever. Not that it mattered.
Right now, melting this man down mattered far more.
Sliding the collapsed woman toward the corner of the bed, I set about stimulating him.
Visually.
Audibly.
Through touch.
Tracing his gaze as it followed my bared breast, the one slipped free of my negligee, I drew close — stroking his hands along my body instead, pressing into him, resuming the filthy kiss that had gone still.
So he could feel my body with his skin.
So he'd go looking for everything the woman before me couldn't give him.
So he'd register that I was the better woman.
Turning my body to feed the conquest and satisfaction this man carried inside him, I slipped into the cradle of his loins and savored the hands roaming over me.
"Ahhn! Jagi... you really love my chest, huh? That much?"
Most of the hands wandering my body had gravitated to my breasts.
Men will be men...
"Yeah?"
The hands at my chest slid down to my navel.
Then the stroking began.
The sensation of being traced, slowly, in circles — it raised gooseflesh.
Pleasure trailing in the wake of something razor-sharp gliding across my skin.
What is this?
"This is where it needs to land, you know..."
"Hm? What does?"
"Sperm."
The obscenity of it, out of nowhere, knocked me a little off balance.
I'd never talked like that...
Was he this type?
"No? It has to reach your womb today."
Right.
I came here to get pregnant...
Somehow, without meaning to, I'd let myself enjoy it a little.
"That's right... then... will you... do it for me?"
"......"
The breath at my ear went silent, and my body pitched forward.
Guided by the hands pressing my shoulders down, I settled into position.
"Pervert."
The feel of him against my thighs, my hips.
A sound like the flimsy scrap of fabric I still wore being reduced to tatters — and then he was inside me.
"Ah......"
This is a little rough, isn't it.
I turned my head slightly.
"Be... gentle."
Did I say the wrong thing?
Or had I just provoked him further?
Slap! Slap! Slap! Slap!
The obscene sound of flesh striking flesh began to fill the room again.
A face melting, bit by bit.
Eyes going loose and glazed.
"Ha— hah...... hah...... hah......"
Good.
Thanks to the war and two pandemics, a pleasure I hadn't tasted in years was seeping back into my body.
Ever since I was young I'd known my own worth, my own charm — and I'd used both without apology.
In the market I had always commanded top value, and buyers wanting to purchase me overflowed wherever I went, so the choosing was always mine to do.
Then the world changed — and this was my first fuck from the position of being the one chosen.
"Ahhk......! Ju— just a little......! Ahhk... I said... be gentle...!"
Rough, yes. But within tolerable bounds. More than tolerable, actually.
He knows what he's doing.
My first sex in forever, with someone who knows how to pleasure a partner as well as himself.
"Nghah......! Pervert."
A conversation of bodies, trading warmth no dildo could ever give.
God, it's good.
Apparently a woman who genuinely knows how to enjoy sex means you have to go two rounds.
Breasts that spill just past the reach of one hand, a pelvis that could only be called blessed, a waist and hips sculpted by unmistakably disciplined care — she's a woman built from charms.
Experienced, too. Where Yujin had been her awkward first, this one matched me through a far wider repertoire, trading rhythm for rhythm, sharing the whole pleasure of it.
We started from behind, worked through woman-on-top and a dozen positions besides, and finished with her face buried in the mattress while I drove into her.
I half expected her to balk at the rougher holds — instead she just reveled in them.
Whew. Exhausting.
Dragging my gaze off the two women sprawled across the bed, I moved to wash up — and spotted something white in the corner. Something I hadn't seen before.
Oh, right. Her.
Song Hanna.
I'd nearly skipped right past the best physique of the three.
When I approached, she pulled the fallen blanket over herself and backed away, crying, trembling.
What am I supposed to do with this...
Figuring the nudity was the problem, I found the fallen shower robe, put it on, and came back — at which point she buried her face in the blanket entirely, refusing to meet my eyes at all.
"What's wrong?"
She mumbled something indecipherable, then went silent.
This is going to be a pain.
I thought for a moment, then just picked her up, blanket and all.
Whatever had frightened her — probably the sex earlier — I figured she needed a change of scenery before she'd come back to herself.
Carrying her as she was, I opened the door and stepped out, skipping the room the three of us had prepped in and taking her into a different one.
Clothes strewn everywhere just felt wrong for this.
In the new room I switched off every light, letting only the natural glow in through the window, and held her wrapped in the blanket, patting her back, over and over.
In this grotesque hybrid age — free love fused with traditional marriage, where a woman's value skyrockets from twenty to as high as thirty-five — I'd assumed there was no woman alive who wasn't practiced at sex.
There is.
Was I too harsh with her?
Or... was that genuinely her first time?
If so, I showed her something brutally hardcore right out of the gate.
Sorry about that...
I kept patting her back, apology folded into every stroke, and slowly I could feel it — the rigid tension that had seized her whole body when I carried her in, loosening little by little.
"Hey... you didn't know people did this kind of thing?"
"......No."
"Then what?"
"It was scarwer than I thought......"
"And?"
"And... and..."
"Mm. And?"
"It was scary."
"I see."
What am I supposed to do with that...
"So... should we not do it, then?"
"......No."
Oh.