On the Way Home from Work 1
On the way home from work. Heading to the subway. The streets were still teeming with people. A world where countless Shells mimicked life from the original reality. Human bodies stolen and worn by demons. They moved like they'd been programmed solely for their routines.
As I stepped into the subway, a suffocating crowd pressed in. It was the kind of crush where you'd worry about getting trampled. So many people gathered, yet not a single breath could be heard. The Shells waiting in perfect silence for the train were, in a way, downright terrifying.
With the commute roads jammed, it was only natural everyone piled into the subway. Ah... I should've clocked out after rush hour. Or kept reading Gu Mirae's "President Kim is too much" until quitting time. I'd skimmed it, but every action she and I shared in the break room was right there in the book. From the heroine's wall slam in the early chapters to hugging President Kim's neck and kissing him—everything matched perfectly.
Gu Mirae's desires stemmed straight from this book. Study it, and I'd know every one of her cravings. Target her post-work urges especially, and I'd own her completely. The roots of Shells' desires were simpler than you'd think. They were heavily influenced by the books they read or the YouTube they watched. Humans are simpler creatures than they let on. They spout philosophy but get swept up by YouTube algorithms—aren't they just pretentious know-it-alls?
What makes neuroscientists scary is their ability to manipulate people. I could do it too. My buddy Nangryun was a true genius in that field. A natural brain hacker—he'd rigged the U.S. election to put Trump in office.
Humans don't blindly trust conclusions fed to them, but they mistake their own judgments—drawn from the info they've gathered—for absolute truth. The human brain is simple. Don't post in communities; scatter hints through idle gossip, media, variety shows, TV. Drop clues so obvious even a kid could spot them, but slyly omit the conclusion. Let the target piece together the breadcrumb info themselves. Unwittingly, they'll collect the hints and form their own "conclusion." Distorted facts without endings get sprinkled like hints, and people delude themselves into seeing those self-derived conclusions as truth. Because they think it's rational thinking on their part. That's brainwashing via scattered conclusion-free hints. That's how beliefs are forged.
This was the most basic method of brain hacking. Goebbels took it to terrifying extremes. Hacking Shells—simpler than humans—is easier for me than flipping my palm.
To lowball humans further: creatures that eat and shit. Watching the Shells only highlighted human insignificance more. Even Cheongdam Station, relatively quiet during rush hour, was bursting at the seams. What must Gangnam or Sindorim Stations be like now?
Four trains passed before I squeezed on. Even past peak, it was sardine-packed. Aside from the train's signature rattle, no other sounds. At least the women around me were a silver lining. Back in the day, it'd be awkward; now, it was a perk. No disputes over "your chest brushed me" or whatever.
The woman in front of me looked like one of those Yeouido Park workout types. Tank top and dolphin pants. She'd caught my eye from boarding with that cola-bottle figure. [180, 212,111] Not even three sizes—whatever you call those stats. Seeing sex scores like that made me think humans were prone to bias.
'Hostess from a bar?' Her outfit stood out amid the suits. White sneakers, moderately tanned thighs on display. Even with a fashion mask hiding her lower face, her beauty shone through. Now she was plastered against me, her plump breasts squishing into my chest. I could feel her hard nipples. No heels, yet our heights matched perfectly. At least 173 cm. Her scalp smelled sweetly fragrant—thank god. As more people surged on at the next stop, she got shoved right into me. Her breasts mashed against me, soft and electrifying. Glancing down, her white cleavage was spilling out of her tank top. Left nipple peeking free.
Oh. Jackpot for me! I was leaning against the metal bar by the door. Her tits kept rubbing my torso—no way that wouldn't stir me. Her body heat was unusually hot. That's when it hit.
"Hah... hah..."
Her ragged breathing tickled my ear. Suddenly aroused, she wrapped both arms around my neck.
What the? Again? Creampie or internal cumshot scores over 180 meant vulnerable to heat. With me right there, hers had kicked in.
"Hah... haaah..."
Her hot breath wetted my ear. A sexually excited moan. Her body against mine rippled like waves. Rough exhales leaked from her mask. She panted like it hurt. Like a snake constricting prey, her arms tightened around my neck. That's when I spotted what was happening behind her.
A mild-mannered middle-aged guy. Stuck right to her back, face stiff, hand working between her legs. Dolphin pants were perfect for slipping fingers in. Rush-hour subway molester. He pistoned away, sweat beading on his half-bald head. His routine. I wondered if he was a survivor like me, but no—this bald middle-ager was a Shell. One fully committed to his lewd routine. Kinda pitiful.
"Hah... hah..."
The issue? She looked up at me, moaning in ecstasy. Our eyes met, and hers curved into a smile. Mask hid her mouth, so it looked like a genuine pretty eye-smile, not a Joker Smile. She thought I was the groper.
Ah, fuck. Not me! But damn, she was enjoying the molester. Total slut class. Problem was, she thought it was me doing it.
'This is maddening.'
Nothing more unjust than being pegged as the perv. Already clinging, grinding her tits, she shuddered, singing out her pleasure. But I couldn't play brave citizen and nab the bald molester. No Shell had that routine. Cops handle crimes, but sneaky ones like this? Hard to catch. Packed crowd hides it from CCTV, and victim statements are impossible.
Shells can't even talk properly for testimony. Worst case, cops show up, and I risk demon possession. Or get mistaken for the perv and dragged to jail. Can't even protest my innocence.
'Goddamn it.'
Best to ignore or bail. Then the molester unzipped, whipped out his dick. Pathetic thing. Rock-hard, aiming to insert. Crazy bastard. I grabbed her waist—arms still around my neck—and swapped positions with where I'd been leaning. Like lovers switching spots in an embrace. I shielded her with my bulk, shoving the molester back with my back. He jutted his lower jaw in a sad pout.
Issue was hoisting her waist, pulling her flush into me. Face flushed, she was thrilled. Legs went weak; she trembled in my arms. How good was that molester's technique? I gripped her quivering waist, steadying her on the brink. She shook like she was climaxing.
"Hah... hah..."
Deep breaths, then she stared piercingly. Her long fingers caressed my chest, sliding down slowly. Finally, one hand grazed my crotch, tugging my zipper. Expert moves. No hesitation touching my raging hard-on. She was in extreme heat. Eyes protesting why I'd stopped the fire. Young women scoring over 180 on sex stats were heat-prone. Flames ignited in her masked gaze. No brakes on her lust. Moaning lewdly, she rocked her hips back and forth. Inevitably, my erect cock followed her hand... somewhere.
Squelch. Dolphin pants stretched perfectly. No idea you could insert without dropping trou. She was no-panties too. Wanted to pull out, but already buried. The subway jolted on. Vibrations mashed us closer. Her temp was slightly elevated. Then, a thrilling squeeze began.
Schlick-schlick-schlick-schlick. Schlick-schlick.
Slippery, cream-smeared lust hole... The train's shakes made rapid thrusts echo erotically. No one cared if we were fucking or what. Or maybe the tight cling hid it. Secret public sex with a stranger? Thrilling rush. She spread her legs a bit, ass up. Height difference perfect—no issues standing. Warm vaginal walls massaged my glans. Cozy, sighing warmth inside the chewy depths. She muffled moans with her hand; her ass buzzed my lower belly in figure-eights like a courting bee.
No need to thrust—the train's jolts and surging crowds handled the in-and-out naturally. Crowd-pushed sex. Like my morning commute experience, but with a total stranger? Still thrilling. Did my crazy South American one-night wife pull this? Wife flashed in my mind—rage surged. Gripped dolphin-pants girl's waist, plunged deep to her cervix. No holding back the creampie. Cum and done.
Long fuck with Gu Mirae today dulled my glans sensitivity. Stamina now ironclad. Subway floor slick. She felt that good. Pro sex worker, probably. Professional woman for sure. Killer body—maybe tenpro hostess? Masked, but eyes and nose screamed beauty. Workout gear this hour? Night job confirmed. Mask hiding face sealed it. Not a sloppy amateur, though. Grip and technique worlds apart. Her spasms differed from Han Areum, Jin Sun-mi, or Gu Mirae. Amateur vs. pro? She was pro at sex too. Makes sense for a specialist. Ass bounce top-tier. How do you sculpt a cola-bottle body? What workouts? Craved a full visual of her nude.
Spurt. Gurgle-gurgle-glurp. Creampied inside, but rigidity held. Pro pussy preserved my steel. Craftsmen obsess over tools... She was one I wanted to own. Keep her as lifelong fuck partner. She noticed the creampie, glanced back. But my hips kept going, so she relaxed into it again. Her desire: sex, sex, sex. Dolphin-pants girl crested again, legs buckling like fainting.
What? Sudden blackout? Orgasm overload knockout. Impaled on my huge cock, she couldn't collapse— it propped her up. What? Dead? Hoisted her waist quick. Limp neck dangled. Overwhelmed by pleasure, full blackout. Slowly withdrew from her. Pfffrrrrt-plop-pffft-pffrrrr. Pussy queefed lewdly. Supported her unconscious form, but zero interest from anyone. Doors opened our way; I half-carried her to the platform.
Laid her on the lounge sofa. Hope not dead. Mask hid her face. CPR time. Can't die. Ah... fuck. What bullshit on the way home. All that molester prick's fault. Peeled off her mask, parted full lips, leaned for mouth-to-mouth. Then—tongue tangled in.
'What.'
She'd come to, eyes wide in mischief, deepening the kiss. Lounge crowd stared. Her eyes fluttered. Still lost in orgasm afterglow. Squish-squish. Fluids leaked from her crotch intermittently. Kissing, her eyes said: 'You're the first to satisfy me like this.' Grateful, shy kiss. Honestly, her pussy was peak. Wanted to savor the grip and skills properly. Leisurely bed fuck, belly-to-belly. With that body and kiss game... I'd be her regular. Lips parted slowly; silver strand connected us briefly. She blushed, rushed the mask back on. I caught her bare face first.
"!!!"
I froze like ice. World grayed out. The whore I'd pegged... was Suryeon—member of my favorite idol group Pink Banny.