MT Night: The Black Lace Trap
Welcome, Sage. Did you have a vibrant day?
“Exams are done, so yeah, my mind's at ease. No clue on the results, though.”
Endorphin levels dropping. Fabricating a scenario matched to your hormones. Starting simulation.
Whirrr.
With the familiar vibration, his vision shattered into a fine blue grid.
Polygon shards rained from the void, spinning rapidly to assemble an unfamiliar space.
Wallpaper peeled into place, and dingy linoleum covered the floor.
At the same instant, eardrum-shattering noise and the sting of alcohol filled the air.
“Your glass is empty! Fill your neighbor's or you're singing!”
The shout hammered his eardrums. The sharp tang of soju mixed with greasy pork belly fumes.
A textbook college MT drinking bash.
“Haa... zero romance here.”
The girl beside him propped her chin, grumbling.
Her alcohol-flushed cheeks bloomed like peaches across flawless, milky skin.
Her big, double-lidded eyes were hazy, but the sharp nose below and plump, jelly-full lips were damn alluring.
The kind of flashy beauty that had scorched plenty of guys' loins tonight.
“This isn't the MT I dreamed of. Pork belly and soju? Come on.”
“What'd you expect from an MT?”
She snorted at his retort.
“Some atmosphere, at least. Look over there—just one bottle of whiskey, treated like a holy relic. Ugh, total lame.”
The seniors she pointed to were revering a '17 vintage like it was the Grail.
Lame was right.
She pouted, slamming back her shot.
The complaints kept coming.
“No hot seniors either. Not drama-level, but not even average? Full haul. Full.”
“Full haul? Of what?”
“Squid!”
A nearby freshman, mid-chat, glanced over and shoved squid snacks her way from afar.
“Squid... is squid...”
Before the absurdity slipped out, he pressed her knee firmly.
“Hey, what~?”
She shoved his hand away irritably.
Then chewed the squid, her dazed eyes sweeping the room before locking on him.
She narrowed them, focusing, then beamed.
Leaning toward him, her upper body tilted just so—close but not touching. Expert vixen move.
“Oppa looks best out of the bunch. Pass.”
“Why oppa? I'm a freshman too.”
“Don't like oppa? Oppa~ Oppaang~”
With no better prey in sight, she'd fully disarmed, rambling her woes at him like a pouty kid.
How much time passed?
Her head lolled onto his shoulder.
Even her crown reeked of booze.
“Yo! Get her to a room and tuck her in.”
The club rep across the table barked the order, finger jabbing his way.
Their eyes met.
“Me?”
He was already ignored, lost in chatter.
Faking annoyance, he hauled her up by the arm.
She crumpled like boneless jelly.
Pleading glances around yielded nothing—everyone was glued to their glasses.
He ended up shouldering her deadweight corpse alone.
Dragging her upright crushed his shoulder under her heft.
“Mm...”
Back piggybacked, she buried her face in his nape.
Her hot breath tickled.
Lips naturally sought his skin, rubbing.
Magnet for flesh scent or what?
Wet lips trailed his carotid.
Soft tits mashed his back, breath teasing his neck.
Through the rowdy living room, he reached a dim corner room.
Futons blanketed the floor.
He dumped her on one.
“Nng...”
She whimpered, curling fetal.
Her skirt hiked, baring thighs—but was that his problem?
He tossed a blanket over her roughly and turned.
Shut the door behind him.
“Whew—exhausting.”
The booze-fest raged on outside.
Feet wouldn't move back.
Wait—this is a sim.
Too damn convenient.
Desire stirred.
Don't hold back.
That's the point of probing lust.
Click.
Back inside, he locked it.
Noise cut off; eerie quiet settled.
Slowly, he peeled back the blanket.
Dead to the world, utterly defenseless.
He sat bedside, fingers on her blouse buttons.
Each pop revealed pale flesh.
“Oppa waited for me, right?”
Her earlier oppa-spam cracked him up.
Flung the blouse open.
Black lace bra and panties. Perfect matching set.
Front-hook type, no less.
“Big expectations, huh.”
He snorted involuntarily.
Who wears that to an MT?
Conquest lingerie.
Was the blackout real?
Or waiting for him to unwrap?
No hesitation now.
Unhooked the center—tick—cups sprang aside.
Bound tits sprang free, majestic.
Gravity dragged the perfect shape sideways, slight sag.
That imperfection screamed real.
The yielding flesh, bowing to gravity—pure filth.
“Playing possum?”
Flicked her nipple.
She twitched but eyes stayed shut.
Hard to tell truth from act.
Instinct or seduction?
Didn't matter.
Unbuttoned her skinny jeans, yanked the zipper.
Hip-huggers fought back.
Like stripping a ragdoll, he grunted.
“Stuck tight.”
She groaned, hips lifting just enough.
Perfectly timed.
Jeans slid off smooth.
“Well, damn.”
Tongue clicked.
Clearly blackout drunk.
Yet hips up?
Mystery.
But clear: her body permitted invasion.
Guilt melted away.
No victim here.
Accomplice, at least now.
He'd give her what she craved.
Black lace panties still barred entry.
Grabbed the waistband—floppy ass didn't budge.
Need to strip 'em?
Hooked fingers, slid crotch aside.
Pale skin peeked through fabric.
Like it was made for this.
Grabbed thighs, spread wide.
Released—legs flopped shut.
No will against gravity.
Bolder now: ankles up, ass lifted, knees splayed to full M.
Limp legs draped, perfect spread.
Open crotch: shifted panty, bare flesh inviting.
Wide open, no resistance—pure provocation.
Finger to the slit.
Slick.
Jelly-sticky grip.
Mind gone, body honest.
The disconnect fired his gut.
Lean in for a mood-set kiss—
Head lolled aside at the last second.
Mumbled into pillow:
“Oppa... it's my first time. Be gentle...”
“......Ha.”
Absurd—matching lingerie, front-hook, hip-lift assist—virgin?
No rookie confession. Calculated killer line.
Stroked conquest and protector urges, reeling him in.
Classic fish-tank bait—but it hooked men every time.
Even blackout, instinct-spouting it.
Dedicated player.
Fine, he'd play.
Gladly dive in that tank.
No foreplay needed.
Target clear, soaked and ready.
Slow thrust in.
No resistance.
Limp muscles yielded like jelly, enveloping soft.
No living squeeze.
Just wet flesh parting powerlessly to his girth.
Like fucking a lifelike doll.
“Nng... Ah...”
She winced, short moan at entry.
Eyes shut tight.
Blank face, molten core.
Broken doll ravishment.
Slow withdraw, thrust again.
Her body rocked passively.
Strange, inert flesh feel.
Each push heaved her limp up.
“Hic...”
Deeper stab.
Inertia rippled her.
Dead weight heavy.
That heft felt real.
Psychic thrill of violating the defenseless.
Pudding walls, no fight.
Not communion—pure use.
But the mechanical conquest out-zinged any lovey-dovey.
He kept pistoning.
Slap, slap.
Flesh smacks echoed raw in the hush.
Each thrust tossed her like driftwood.
Absolute passivity—no fight, no yield.
Less sex, more violation—but his brain craved the immorality.
“Ngh...!”
Couldn't last.
Conquest overload hit critical.
Gripped hips, final deep slam.
Gush.
Hot spill into unresponsive cervix.
She didn't stir.
Only he gasped, savoring the hollow, brutal peak.
Dopamine levels stabilized. Ending simulation.