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The algorithm knew him too well. Or maybe it knew nothing at all, and simply gave out cursed discounts the way the Space Shopping Mall handed out everything else; too unusual to make sense, too useful to pass up.
Kim Soleum scrolled, scrolled, and kept scrolling. Potions. Chocolates. Beads. Charms. An assortment of enhanced goods that seemed a bit more excessive than his current funds would allow. And then—
A dildo.
They sell sex toys here? Kim Soleum thought, baffled. It was listed at an extreme discount, seventy-eight percent off, red foil label in a script he couldn’t quite parse. He wasn’t interested in mustering up the courage to ask Braun, either.
He stared at it. Surprisingly, the product looked awfully tempting. He’d gone without sex for so long, and what other way was he expected to chase relief? He wasn’t going to ask a man. What was he supposed to do, knock on Baek Saheon’s door and ask him for “mutual stress relief?”
He thought about it for half a second—imagining himself knocking on the man’s door like the psychopath the man assumed him to be—and recoiled in disgust. Better to trust a piece of plastic than any man breathing.
He hit purchase.
Hours later, the box lay torn on his floor.
The toy purred in his hand, warm and eager. Kim Soleum was already flushed, already hard, already muttering to himself as he slicked it up and angled it down.
And when it slid in—oh, gods—he choked, fingers clawing at the sheets, body rocking helplessly as the toy pulsed inside of him. It wasn’t just filling him; it was moving with him, alive, pressing back, squeezing him in rhythm with his heartbeat, milking him like it knew what he wanted.
Kim Soleum buried his face in his pillows and groaned. Worth every cent of that discount.
◆
Meanwhile, in a certain Talk Show Host’s Office:
Braun sat behind his desk, going over cue cards. Or at least, he had been.
Now, he was gripping the polished edge hard enough to crack the wood.
Because, without warning, slick, wet, heat had enveloped him.
Not sunlight, not fire—just heat, literal. He’d faced ghosts, beasts, entire audiences armed with rotten tomatoes, but nothing had prepared him for the indignity of being ambushed by pleasure at his own desk. His cock, usually contained and ignored, suddenly found itself buried in impossible, wet-tight suction. Braun gasped—static spiking across his screen—his broad frame jerking as if someone had poured molten electricity through him.
“Oh my—” Braun muttered, just remembering that his mic wasn’t on. His tie loosened as he leaned forward, trembling. “What is going—”
He clutched the barely-there desk, his body shuddering, massive hands clenched into fists starkly against paper-white files. The phantom heat clenched again—tight, fluttering—and Braun groaned out loud.
Someone knocked at his door.
“Sir? Do you have a moment to review the guest lineup?”
Braun’s antenna shot straight up. He forced his screen to a neutral smile, his voice crackling with effort. “N–not now! I’m afraid.”
A pause. Then, timidly: “Are you—alright, sir?”
“Yes,” Braun said, strangled. He forced his screen into a smile. “You can take your leave.”
The assistant, wisely, walked off.
Braun sagged back into his chair, hands gripping the armrests now. Every clench of that phantom body rippled through him; every new and eager thrust dragged out a deep groan from his chest. He didn’t dare move; didn’t dare touch anything. He could feel enough, already, every movement echoing through him with obscene clarity: the push–pull of hips that weren’t his, the flutter of a hole clenching around an object, the messy slick sound of it all.
He could feel it. He could feel all of it.
“Oh, Mr. Roe Deer,” he hissed, static flickering across his visage. “You’ll be the death of me.”
◆
Back in his room, Kim Soleum had given up on restraint.
His thighs shook, his body arching as he rode the toy hard, sweat streaking down his temple. Every thrust made him gasp as the toy buzzed with obscene glee inside him, perfectly curved, perfectly relentless. He bit his pillow to muffle the embarrassing noises tearing out of his throat, gasping half-slurred words.
“F–fuck—hah—too good—oh—”
His toes curled. His stomach tensed. He couldn’t stop.
He had no way to know each clench of his body was sent straight to Braun’s cock.
◆
And Braun—
His head dropped forward. He could practically taste the pleasure in the back of his throat, a molten feedback loop that had nothing to do with him and had everything to do with Kim Soleum’s frantic, shameless fucking.
He wasn’t mad. He wasn’t angry. He was—
“Shit—” He grasped onto his desk again as the heat stroked him, wet and greedy, as if the sensation itself wanted to drain him dry. His massive frame shuddered. His breath came out in ragged, staticky bursts. His screen was now a kaleidoscope of pixels. “Oh, friend, what—have you—bought now?”
◆
The toy kept on whirring inside Kim Soleum, a deep vibration that made his knees give out, left him flat on his mattress with his hips twitching uncontrollably. He practically cried into the sheets, trying to hide the high, broken noises that slipped from him, and still he couldn’t bring himself to stop moving. His body had already decided for him—more, more, more.
◆
Braun was wrecked.
One elbow on the desk, his other gloved hand braced on his thigh, he hunched forward as wave after wave of slick heat squeezed him, milking, dragging, coaxing his cock with obscene intimacy. He could picture it; he wasn’t trying to, but he could see it anyway—the rabbit-fast clench of Kim Soleum’s body, the flushed face pressed to cheap sheets, the way his lips must be bitten-red and wet.
He let out a low, ragged laugh that sounded more like a plea. “If you wanted to ruin the both of us so badly, you should have simply asked me in advance. ”
Another knock.
Braun snapped upright. His chair creaked as his face flared with fury.
“Sir?” A voice ventured. “Would now be a good time to—”
“OUT,” Braun barked, then forced his voice down, trembling. “Please, not now.”
The footsteps retreated. Then, silence.
He sagged forward, trembling; screen glowing with faint white noise as the phantom heat built, built, built. He didn’t dare touch himself; he didn’t need to. Every thrust was already a part of him, every movement wringing through his body like current.
“Oh, my god,” he groaned again, screen blacking out for a beat. His chest heaved. “He’s—he’s really—ah—”
◆
Back in bed, Kim Soleum came with a stifled cry, whole body locking up, his hole spasming around the toy as it pulsed and squeezed and nearly refused to let him go. Cum streaked his stomach, his thighs, his sheets. He shook with it, ruined and breathless, clinging to the mattress like it could save him.
◆
And Braun—
His breath hitched once, twice, before he, too, came under the desk; helplessly undone with the force of it. The phantom heat milked him through it, every last clutch of Kim Soleum’s body wringing him tighter, longer, until he was gasping sparks in the dark, screen flashing static-white from the overload.
Silence. Save for his own, ragged breathing.
He slumped back into the chair, finished, one hand dragged down his screen like it could hide the glow. His tie was crooked, his gloves half-off, his body shaking.
◆
On the bed, Kim Soleum blinked blearily at the ceiling, chest still heaving. The toy slowly buzzed off next to him, satisfied.
Kim Soleum sighed, content, before muttering, “Not a bad deal… it was worth the price.”
◆
Braun covered his face with one hand, crackling laughter sparking out of him despite himself.
“Oh, my good friend,” he grumbled, falling limply against the battered chair. “You really have no idea.”