The Tollgate of Reckoning
Hayan raised an eyebrow as she stared at the message on her screen. Ever since her dramatic glow-up, countless "scrotums" had thrown direct and indirect advances her way. Yet, her identity as a feminist jihadist remained unshaken, her ideology rock-solid. Hayan guarded her cunt like a sacred treasure, rarely spreading her legs. She fiercely believed that her feminist "unnis" would never open their thighs for those filthy "scrotums." Hayan had sworn to walk the same path her sisters had paved.
In reality, however, feminism melted away like a castle of sand before money and alpha males. No matter how radical the feminist, when faced with a man who showered her with cash or exuded raw power, she would transform into the most submissive, demure lady, spreading her legs wide to let him flood her womb with thick semen. It was the same logic behind why men who beat women never seemed to run out of partners. Females tolerated violence, provided the male was an alpha. Ever since the Proterozoic Eon, when biological sexes diverged and sexual reproduction began, this self-evident law of nature had remained unchanged: 'Males conquer, and females submit.' With cunts and cocks destined to meet, who could dare rebel against this law? But because Hayan was slightly removed from the mainstream feminist circles, she had no idea how desperately those "unnis" craved to be pounded by a hard cock. Consequently, Hayan was still a virgin.
She wore highly revealing costumes, shaking her ass to provide jerk-off material for Hannam losers while sucking up booking fees and influencer revenue. She secretly reveled in their "gaze rape," soaking her panties with thick, milky arousal. Yet, the moment she returned home, she would log onto her private social media account to spew venom at the "scrotum otaku" who had dared to look at her body. Whether during her days as an illustrator or now in her new career as a cosplayer, she was truly a hypocritical, brainless bitch.
But this time, things were a little different. The keywords "forties" and "male feminist" were met with absolute disgust in young, male-dominated online communities, but to Hayan, they carried a relatively positive image. She had heard favorable things from her feminist unnis who served as "cock-houses" for mature Young Forty oppas. Besides, as a feminist herself, she was intrigued by a man who openly declared himself a "feminist" right from the start. Hayan sent a reply to Donghoon. And so, the two met.
A Young Forty and a young feminist woman—the infamous "salon-brothel duo," as the public called them, was formed. Hayan offered up her cunt to Donghoon. Donghoon, in his forties (suffering from hyperlipidemia, surging estrogen, and erectile dysfunction), was hardly a sexual dynamo. Yet, to Hayan, Donghoon was her lord and master—the "husband" who had taken her virginity. Even when Donghoon, despite calling himself a feminist, subtly devalued women and sexually harassed her, Hayan became a perfectly submissive, demure lady in his presence, sucking his cock and spreading her legs whenever ordered.
But Hayan didn't just offer her body. Donghoon was a former director of a first-generation gaming company. Now retired (or rather, weeded out due to sheer incompetence), he served as the head of a civic group auditing "gender sensitivity" and acted as an external advisor for various gaming firms. Back when the Korean gaming industry was first taking root, Donghoon had copied foreign RPGs and repackaged them, achieving a level of success far beyond his actual abilities. Despite his shortcomings, to the younger generation in the industry, he was still a "respected senior" who had once made it big. With so many connections and favors owed, he possessed a powerful network across the industry, whether people liked it or not.
Donghoon's network unexpectedly became the bridge for Hayan to resume her career as an illustrator. Donghoon pulled strings and pressured companies to give her freelance contracts. Whenever a sane developer tried to refuse, they were quickly brought to heel after Donghoon published smear editorials in puppet media outlets under his own name or his organization's banner, publicly crucifying them. If all else failed, Hayan would secretly contact the developers and offer "pillow service." Though Donghoon was initially furious upon finding out, he quickly quieted down when Hayan began using her pillow service to secure deals that benefited him as well. Donghoon got a useful cock-house, and Hayan got her career back—a truly mutually beneficial relationship.
When rumors spread that Hayan was returning as an illustrator, the gaming community was thrown into an uproar once again. However, with Donghoon using his puppet organizations and media allies to play the "sweet" white knight and shield her, the exhausted gamers eventually gave up and drifted away. There was nothing they could do. When the entire world had become a breeding ground for feminists, what power did they have? Not unless the entire board was flipped. Thus, Hayan successfully launched the glamorous second act of her life, both as an illustrator and a cosplayer. It felt as though the good times would last forever. Until that day arrived.
The coup erupted. General Park Tae-seop was assassinated. The simmering pressure reached its boiling point and exploded all at once. Public order collapsed. The board was flipped. A hit list began circulating among alt-right organizations, accompanied by a single, brutal slogan: "Kill every last feminist and their old backers." Hayan's name was on that list. Her backer could no longer protect her. Violence replaced reason. Biological dominance began to usurp social standing. Stripped of their social influence, men in their forties were reduced to nothing more than helpless, aging beasts waiting to be slaughtered by the younger generation.
"Get in! Hurry, get in!" Donghoon chose to quietly flee Seoul, dragging Hayan along. It wasn't out of a desire to protect her. In his forties, with his estrogen levels rising, any primal male instinct to protect his female had long since withered away. His sole purpose in bringing Hayan along was to use her as a "cock-house and a wallet." She would satisfy his lust, and if his frozen bank accounts remained locked, her body would serve as an excellent alternative currency. Marveling at his own cleverness, Donghoon spun the steering wheel toward the Northern Expressway. He was heading for Yangyang. He owned a private villa there, a place he had previously used to host drug-fueled sex parties, offering up Hayan and other cock-houses to industry elites.
"Yangyang... Let's go to Yangyang. It'll be safe there for a while," Donghoon muttered frantically, gripping the steering wheel.
"Oppa? Why Yangyang? There's nothing out there!" Hayan complained, her voice laced with annoyance.
"Fuck! What do you expect to find out there? You want to stay in Seoul and get slaughtered together?"
"But it's so boring... Can't we just hide out in some hotel? A staycation would be so nice!" When Hayan let out another clueless, privileged whine, Donghoon snapped in frustration.
"Stop talking nonsense! Those bastards from the National Male Vanguard or whatever are wearing armbands and tearing Seoul apart. One wrong move and we're fucking dead!"
"..." Hayan didn't push any further. Even as a feminist warrior, she was ultimately just a woman; she couldn't utter a single peep of rebellion against the master of the cock that had taken her virginity.
"Still, they have internet there... and convenience stores... everything we need. Just bear with it for a bit, okay? Seoul will quiet down in a few days..."
"Okay, Oppa." As Donghoon suppressed his anger and coaxed her, Hayan's resentment melted away. It was the same psychological trap that kept abused women from leaving their boyfriends. No matter how many times a man beat her, a single moment of kindness was all it took to make her submit again.
Donghoon's car approached the Seoul-Yangyang Expressway Tollgate. Just then—
"Checkpoint! Roll down your window!" Someone tapped loudly on the glass. It wasn't the police.
"..." It was a man in a military uniform. He didn't look like an active-duty soldier. His military cap bore the large "frog" emblem of a discharged reserve soldier, and on his arm—
The National Male Vanguard... He wore an armband symbolizing the rising militant alt-right youth organization: a white Big Dipper and a red stripe set against a black background. Supposedly, the design was inspired by Joseon-era military flags, but in their current situation, such trivia was entirely irrelevant.
"I said roll down the window!" As Donghoon hesitated, the man banged on the glass again.
"What's taking so long?" Another man blocking the road walked over.
"These bastards won't roll down the window!"
"Then just smash it."
"Hey, it's not even my car, and this ride looks pretty damn expensive."
"Who cares if it's not yours? Besides, in this day and age, any bastard who made that much cash is bound to be some corrupt, newly rich piece of shit anyway."
The second man told the first to step aside and took his place in front of the car door.
"Checkpoint! Get out of the vehicle!" The man barked, lowering his voice as he banged on the window again. He was also clad in a military uniform and a reserve cap. His combat cap was cluttered with the reserve frog emblem, embroidered Hanja characters, and various patches of unknown origin. The name tag on his chest read Park Byeongji.
"Oppa, what do we do? What do we do?" Hayan whined, stomping her feet in panic.
"Ah, fuck..."
"Can't you just step on the gas?"
"Are you insane? I'll end up in prison!"
"Then what are we supposed to do?! Those guys look absolutely pissed!"
"Sigh... Let me just roll down the window and try to smooth things over." As Donghoon reluctantly reached for the window button, Hayan grabbed his arm.
"Oppa, are you crazy? What if you roll it down! Let's just go. Please? Just turn the wheel and drive around them—"
"Make some fucking sense, you stupid bitch!" Donghoon and Hayan bickered back and forth.
"Hey! If you don't roll it down, I'm smashing it!" Park Byeongji flicked open his baton and tapped it against the glass. Tap. Tap.
"Oppa, what do we do! What do we do!" Hayan shrieked, her feet stomping in a frantic rhythm as she defaulted to her useless, panicked babbling.
"Shut the fuck up! You're driving me crazy!!"
"Are you seriously yelling at me right now? Can't you be a little gentler in a situation like this?"
"For fuck's sake..."
Even in the midst of this crisis, Hayan glared at him, unable to hide her venomous, entitled nature. No matter how much she had been tamed by Donghoon's cock, a bitch was still a bitch.
Then—
"Roll it down!" CRACK! The baton slammed into the window. A spiderweb of fractures instantly rippled outward from the point of impact.
"Kyaaaah!" Hayan screamed at the top of her lungs.
"Alright, alright! I'm rolling it down! Just wait!" Donghoon frantically jabbed at the window button.
"Thank you. Just a routine check. Let me see your IDs." Park Byeongji offered a mock salute.
"Ah, I left my ID at home..."
"Me too," Hayan and Donghoon stammered, trying to lie their way out.
"Mobile IDs are fine too," Park Byeongji said, his brow furrowing slightly.
"My phone is dead."
"M-mine too..." they lied in unison.
"Is that so?" A mocking smirk played on Park Byeongji's lips.
"Then what the hell is this?" He pointed directly at the smartphone mounted on the dashboard, which was currently serving as their GPS navigation system. The screen was brightly lit, fully powered on.