I'm Curious (3)
In a real courtroom, in a drama, or somewhere in the churn of internet news—so long as you aren't a baby still too young for black comedy, so long as you're old enough to work a phone—there is one line you are almost guaranteed to have heard at least once.
I was drunk. I don't remember. I'm sorry.
Thanks to that little refrain, the phrase diminished capacity spread through the public and got flung around with no sense of proportion. That, though, is a slightly different story.
The reason I brought it up at all was the shameless woman on the other side of the chat. Even though a flick of the thumb would scroll the screen up to yesterday and leave every word she'd spouted sitting there as evidence, she was playing dumb with a perfectly straight face. Right now she was tapping out, with her fingers, the sort of lines a bald uncle hauled into court might be expected to deliver.
No. I take that back.
A bald uncle at least grovels and says he's sorry if it might shave something off his sentence. She, on the other hand, was putting on an act of clumsy Korean the way she did in front of Han Sua, even though enough time had passed since the drinking that she ought to be perfectly sober. And the curses—those alone she folded up neat and sent over in flawless pronunciation.
Should I smile? Or should I click my tongue?
Caught in that ambiguous feeling, I let out a long hmm and picked up my pace. How was I supposed to take it, watching a woman who spelled and spaced better than most Koreans do it on purpose? Was it simply absurd? Or had the sight of her still clinging to the bit—after I'd already used yesterday's drunken honesty as an excuse to take her as thoroughly as she could have wanted—gone past stubborn and arrived at impressive?
Probably both. Which was exactly why my feelings were so hard to pin down.
"Haa..."
"......"
If anything, part of me wanted to keep the pressure on until she confessed the truth with her own mouth and declared herself a slave. But the other party was Yojora. And this was eight in the morning on a Monday, the hour when man, woman, young, and old alike drift closest to diminished capacity. Besides, however the process had gone, it was a fact that she'd succeeded in planting some very strange knowledge in Han Sua.
No point burning energy on a lunatic first thing in the morning.
I sent back something vague along the lines of see you later, slipped the phone into the pocket of my school-nurse coat, and left it there. I already had a visitor waiting.
"...So the injured student is at Sparring Hall Two, you said?"
"Ah, yes. That building you can see over there."
"Ah, I see."
I shook the mood off, put on the brightest smile I could manage, and fell into step with the boy beside me. Given the choice, I would rather not spend my voice on someone of the same sex, but a person can't live doing only the things he likes. I was a school nurse and a health-committee member in name, at least. I ought to do something that looked like the job.
When a student couldn't easily come to the infirmary, that meant hiding my irritation and making a house call instead of telling them to carry the patient in. So I left the main building with the chilly wind of early spring on my face and stepped into the cube-shaped sparring hall.
A patient waiting who turned out to be some unexpectedly promising hero-in-the-rough... I won't pretend I hadn't hoped for something like that, even a little.
Of course not.
No such convenient event was waiting. The patient was a male student, muscular to an excessive degree. I walked into a dreary space occupied by nothing but men, forced a smile, and set his ankle. I'd fixed plenty of men's ankles back when I was working as a villain, so why the revulsion hit me now, I couldn't say.
I allowed myself one sigh, quiet enough that neither of them would hear it. Then, after accepting their skin-crawling thanks, I returned to the infirmary—and it was immediately after that.
"......"
On the infirmary bed, a head of wheat-field hair I'd grown rather used to was propped against the curtain pole, nodding, swaying. As if she were dozing sitting up.
Sway. Sway.
I didn't lock the door right away. First, get a read on the situation. Bad pranks, manufacturing secrets—that sort of thing could wait until I had a little more control over the scene.
I shut the door without a sound and sat on the bed opposite Han Sua, so that if some other student suddenly walked in I could still patch things over somehow. I didn't even take the coat off the way I usually did when it felt uncomfortable. If I looked as much like a school nurse as possible, a few minor blemishes could be waved off as nothing.
"......"
"...Koo..."
Just like that, I watched Han Sua sleep, dead to the world, as if she were deeply tired. Those eyes, sharp enough to cut even when she was simply sitting still, had gone soft under the pull of sleep, curved into a gentle arch.
I thought about taking a photo for later conversation, then dropped the idea. If the shutter woke her, I'd be throwing away a rare little event. If she stayed asleep like this, I might even get to do something more enjoyable.
I'd heard once that she was self-conscious about that sharp, hard impression of hers. I don't know. It didn't read as a complex to me. She was just pretty. Maybe she was the only one who didn't know it.
That face. That body. A personality like that on top of them, and the boys in her class had surely stripped her bare in their filthy fantasies more than once. In my own villain-era fantasies, at least, face and figure—and a personality that had been nothing but tabloid gossip—had been enough to put her through it several times.
Of course she got me hard.
Those cute lion ears, that lion tail. The way she stuck the code name Sword God on herself and strutted around. A body filthy with sex appeal, and yet her hero costume and her street clothes both followed Confucian modesty to the letter. She'd force a smile for the men who called themselves fans, then turn a look of pure contempt on any man a little lax about his grooming the moment he asked for a handshake. And even so her pride was stubborn in its own way: get some perfectly ordinary fact wrong and she'd brazen it out, then watch the room and inch her tail down bit by bit.
She just looked so pure. Of course she got me hard. Thinking about dirtying all of that exactly to my taste only made me harder.
"......"
"Nn..."
Even with me staring, Han Sua only kept nodding. I looked at the school-uniform shirt stretched tight across her and, for a moment, twitched the index finger resting on my thigh. Then I shifted my gaze a little up and to the side, and something felt slightly off.
Looking closer, the bag she usually carried on her shoulder wasn't there.
Mm. So she'd already stopped by the classroom once. In that case, unfortunate as it was, dragging this out didn't seem wise. I had no idea what she might have told her classmates before coming to the infirmary.
"......"
The thought popped up—did she even have friends? And right behind it, another: Yojora was probably reading the room and covering for her. I still didn't feel like gambling. I'd already stuffed a fair amount of wrong common sense into her. No need to rush. Opportunities like this didn't come often, but this particular one wasn't worth hanging my neck on either.
So. Today, I'd let her off.
"Sua."
"...Nnng..."
"Don't sleep-talk. Wake up. Why'd you come?"
"Ten minutes..."
"Ten minutes?"
"Mnya..."
Han Sua mumbled something incomprehensible, then shoved away the hand I'd been patting her shoulder with, the back of her own hand doing the pushing. After that she stopped dozing against the pole altogether. She flopped down onto the bed and started breathing in soft little puffs.
The way those full breasts, piled to one side, rose and fell lightly with each breath was a very pleasant sight. Unfortunately, I didn't have the leisure to take hold of them and give a nipple a light bite. Someone could open the door without warning, the way that boy had come looking for me earlier. And I could hardly look them in the eye and honestly say she was my sex partner.
Heroes who looked perfect, falling apart over nothing but lust—the more secret that stayed from the public, the harder it got me.
I scratched the tip of my nose, let out a heavy sigh, and gave Han Sua's cheek a light pinch.
"I said get up. You think this is a hotel?"
"Nngh..."
A small moan, and then Han Sua's brows began to knit. The feel of her was soft, with almost none of that peculiar slickness cosmetics leave behind, and it was considerably pleasant. A light pinch, a smooth rub, a poke—every bit of it satisfying, not a single disappointment. Pleasant, considerably so. At this rate I might have to rub my cock against her cheek later and see—
"Mp..."
"...Hey. Han Sua."
As if telling me to stop touching her, Han Sua, who had been turning her head in tiny restless shifts, let her lips meet the thumb still resting on her cheek.
"Nnng..."
"...Spit it out."
And then she swallowed it. Just like the fellatio she'd learned yesterday, she took my finger lightly between her teeth and set to licking the tip with her tongue, lap after earnest lap.
Should I be glad my nails were short? Should I be worrying about what I'd do if another student saw this? Or should I just feed the cock that had started to stiffen into the mouth of a sleep-talking Han Sua?
My head twisted, just a little.
"...Fweh... behh..."
"......"
I drew my finger toward her cheek, and with a behhh her mouth opened. Two neat, tightly set, snow-white teeth caught my eye. Even now her tongue kept licking my finger. Was she doing it to tell me to stop? Or was it just the memory of giving head, still lingering?
"Chup... fwup..."
A bad thought. A slightly worse thought. A truly, enormously bad thought—I let it run for a moment. Then I straightened the front of my pants under the coat, pulled the saliva-slick finger free, and used it to jab Han Sua's cheek without mercy.
"Nnghp, beh... w-wait... wha..."
"Wake up. Don't even think about sleeping here."
"Huh? Wha? Sleeping... huh..."
"...What kind of dream were you having, moaning like that?"
"......?!"
She'd been sucking on my finger so diligently that it might have been a rather dirty dream. Or a dream of nursing at her mother's breast. It might have been nothing of the sort. She might not have been dreaming at all. It was only a joke, tossed out to loosen a situation that was awkward for both of us.
And yet—
She had only just woken, still hazy, and before I could even hear why she'd come to the infirmary, she answered with that. In complete sincerity.
Click.