A Trap Harmful to the Heart 1
As I stepped into the living room, Manager U Mi-young (Poo) was preparing breakfast.
"Oh? You're up early?"
"Master, you're awake?"
The image of Manager (Real) U Mi-young, with whom I'd just exchanged texts, flashed in my mind, causing a slight cognitive dissonance. It was an emotion I hadn't felt back when she was a mute Bear Warrior. The ability to converse meant her existence had risen to my eye level. She'd gone from being a mere fucktoy consumption tool to a human with value equal to mine.
'Maybe I should just think of her as a twin.'
I was overwhelmed by Manager U Mi-young's signature slender leg beauty. Over 170 cm tall, with motherly breasts that exuded fullness without a hint of sag, and wide hips perfect for natural birth. Even though my gaze just skimmed her figure, my cock sprang right up. More violently erotic than any influencer with millions of followers and filtered curves on Instagram. And that U Mi-young was wearing nothing but an apron.
"Hmm~~ Hmm~ Hmm~"
She hummed a tune while coating toast with egg. I craned my neck to check the frying pan. The counter was littered with cracked eggshells and the crumpled silver foil from the butter. Proof that no one is perfect. It was just like the traits I'd observed while working on projects with Manager U Mi-young. Her focus was so intense that once she locked in, she lost sight of her surroundings. Me? I'm good at peripheral vision. I notice everything around me. A messy kitchen? No way I can ignore that.
I grabbed a dishcloth and started cleaning up.
"Cooking always requires a clean workspace. Distractions can lead to accidents."
It was a hard truth I'd learned from my master, who cursed me out while teaching me to cook.
Manager U Mi-young turned her head and beamed at me.
"Yes! Chef Park! I'll keep it clean~"
Her hands moved with impressive speed. The skill she'd shown cooking for Department Head Choi Dong-jin was no fluke.
"Today's special: French toast loaded with my breast milk. If it tastes bad, I'll be heartbroken~"
Her sultry wink made the corner of my mouth twitch up involuntarily.
"You're eating a part of me. Pretty naughty, right?"
She shook her apron lightly, thrusting her thigh forward deeply enough to flash her intimate area. There's a word for it: bewitching—bewitching allure compared to potent poison, where beauty ensnares the mind. Manager U Mi-young embodied that perfectly.
"I'll teach you properly later."
"For real? Promise??"
Her eyes lit up. The detailed facial habits were so spot-on now that even with (Real) Manager U Mi-young beside her, I couldn't tell them apart.
Choi Seo-ah (Retriever) was peeking up at me from under the sofa, wagging her tailless ass seductively. Her eyes brimmed with pure affection. She flexed her anus toward me like it was on display, twitching it invitingly.
"Kiiing~ Kiiing~"
"No!"
I firmly rejected her tantrum for anal. Lately, I'd been chasing nothing but the slick, twitching pleasure of her pierced asshole, so she was begging extra hard. She finally quieted, resting her chin on my instep and lying down.
"Good girl, Seo-ah."
I stroked her head, and she licked my hand contentedly. I was getting used to this bizarre household. Sorry to (Real) Choi Seo-ah and Department Head Choi, but this body suited Retriever perfectly.
"Here~ Dig in! My French toast, made with all my love!"
The French toast U Mi-young served sparkled with sprinkled sugar. One bite, and her addictive breast milk aroma flooded my nose.
"Whoa… this is seriously delicious."
"Right? I squeezed out so much milk that my breasts are a bit wrinkly now—the shape's ruined."
I pulled Manager U Mi-young onto my lap and rewarded her with a light kiss. I savored a leisurely cup of coffee before getting ready to head out. As per (Real) Manager U Mi-young's request, I'd stop by Han Areum's place first, then head to T-12.
"Mi-young, take good care of Mirae and Seo-ah."
"Yes, Master. Don't worry, go have fun. What should I make for dinner?"
Manager U Mi-young (Poo)'s ample breasts brushed softly against my arm.
"Hmm… might eat out tonight. I'll call once I'm in T-12."
"Aww… Okay."
I smiled and left the house. I fired up the Bentley and headed to Han Areum's. Her apartment was in a ritzy neighborhood between Gangnam and Apgujeong—not too far from mine. Strict security booth and gates to keep intruders out. But with the Bentley, the guards just waved me through. In the real world or the shell world, wealth and status solve everything visually. I got why people obsess over looks, luxury cars, high-end phones.
At Han Areum's apartment door. I let out a short sigh. It was Saturday; per Manager U Mi-young's intel, Han Areum wasn't working today. Ring the bell? Nah… something more dramatic might be fun.
Of course it's a trap.
Be more honest, teacher.
Jejeop's words made my lip curl up. This guy's perception of demon kings was spot-on.
I mean… I can humor the first quest, but the second one's gonna be tough to play along with.
I chuckled. At the same time, a 'ding' sounded, and the front door clicked open. Jejeop had used his flea-fly to unlock it.
Your flea-fly is seriously versatile.
Thank you for the praise.
The interior was elegant in warm brown tones. Shelves overflowed with exotic trinkets from frequent overseas trips.
"!!!"
The moment I entered, it felt like time froze… a profound silence disconnected from the world filled the house.
The oxygen saturation in the air plummeted. An eerie chill, like stepping into midnight fog. Even knowing it was 8 AM, I double-checked the clock. The humidity was so thick it felt like wringing water from thin air. Breathing grew labored—like a water ghost's haunt. I knew the place was empty entering the foyer, but eyes were watching. Goosebumps prickled my nape. Even typical shell demon homes weren't this intense. Muscles tensed rigidly. I caught myself holding my breath.
Strange. Strange. Strange.
A duplex with stairs to the second floor in the living room. Marble steps and ivory handrails screamed old money—Han Areum's parents' wealth.
Antiques like ivory horn pipes and weird gloves. Eye-catching: a white sword. No edge, blunt—more like an oval club.
Screech—the door in the living room corner creaked open with footsteps. Human presence was almost welcome. Han Areum? She should be home on a Sunday. No. A middle-aged couple lay in the bedroom. Spotting me, they slowly lifted their torsos from the bed toward me. I flashed a Joker smile and approached slowly. Obviously Han Areum's parents. The middle-aged beauty had inherited her stunning looks. The man was a handsome middle-ager with sharp features.
Then it happened. The beautiful middle-aged wife began slipping off her clothes. Her husband followed suit. The blanket covering them fell to the floor. What the fuck? Late 40s, but toned bodies. Her lower belly had slight flab, but explained Han Areum's figure—insanely hot. The man: no flab, muscular, thick-skinned, trained physique—not gym-rat bulk, but honed.
The wife cupped her husband's face, extending her tongue long. Deep kiss, tongues blatantly out like porn. He grabbed her tits explosively, yanking her waist back. She lay back naturally, spreading her legs wide. Pink pussy gaping. His thick cock flashed briefly—no need to stare. Soon, wet slaps echoed as the couple fucked. Performing for me. Not typical shell behavior.
The wife's voluptuous body, lewd expressions, gestures. Now tonguing the air seductively at me. Desperate face, making a circle with thumb and index—sucking cock gesture. If that doesn't get you hard, you're not human.
No desire to watch. I backed out slowly. Back in the living room, the muggy aura surged again—like humidity webbing the space. Bedroom creaks and slaps halted abruptly. Glancing back through the open door: the furiously fucking couple frozen, heads turned solely to me. Shocking. Mid-thrust, motionless except heads. Horror movie shit.
"What the fuck."
No attack, no rush. Felt like a well-staged play.
Breathing labored again in the living room. Air thickening with bad energy.
Strong enough as a demon hunter—no real danger, but cheap jumpscares were disgusting. I headed slowly to the central stairs. Marble with ivory railing to the second floor. Then—something popped out from behind the stairs. Fuck.
Attack? Blue flames wrapped my hands. Tension auto-triggered combat stance. About to hurl a fireball—then exhaled sharply, dispelling the flames quietly.
"Hoo… Hoo…"
Controlled my breathing. Two girls before me. Porcelain-pale skin, beautiful blondes. Adorable pink ballet slippers and tutus.
Surprisingly, symbols of virgin purity sparkled above their heads. Water nymphs, basically.
Their tutus exposed thighs and asses—flat, spread ballet skirts. Stiffened with starch like saw edges, legs toned from endless practice.
The girls suddenly danced before me. Turning the living room into a stage, their graceful ballet unfolded. Skirts flared like swan wings, fluttering ethereally. Bizarre sight. One in pure white tutu, the other pink. Tiptoeing elegantly, defying gravity, spinning. Bright, pretty smiles—but no survivors. Beneath wing-like skirts, white stockings torn triangular at the crotch, exposing pussy and ass. Small, pink, juicy slits. Perky, handful asses. Such vulgar attire mocked true artists. The pinnacle of human shame.
The white-tutu girl pirouetted on toe first. Blonde perfectly pinned up, skin marble-pale and gleaming. Stopping, she slowly raised a leg into arabesque. But the view between her skirt: pink pussy glistening with arousal through the rip.
Their eyes vacant, focus scattered.
“…”
The pink-tutu girl flitted around her partner like a sprite. Blonde secured with shiny pins, smile fixed. The ballerinas eyed each other, then dropped into grand plié, legs splayed wide, pussies exposed.
Slurp… Smooch… No words, but lewd sounds leaked from their slits.
Lowering slowly in grand plié, they brought faces close. Lips met; pink's tongue invaded white's mouth.
Chup… Smack… Slurp… Legs held perfect ballet form even kissing. On tiptoe for balance, bodies pressed. White grabbed partner's shoulder, slowly turning. Skirt lifted, round ass flashed. Pink hole through tear: slick and shiny.
“Hng… Haa…”
Pink reached back, groping partner's small, firm tits. Hips thrusting front-back—like fucking an invisible cock.
Fuck. Thanks for this trap.