Chapter Five #3
I sputter and sit up, wincing hard as the plug shifts deeper with the movement, the base pressing firmly against my rim.
“You’re insane. You actually mean for me to keep this in my ass all day?
What about work?” I gesture vaguely at my own body, at the plug currently lodged inside me.
“I’m a personal trainer, Hyunwoo. I’m on my feet for eight hours demonstrating exercises and spotting clients.
I do squats and lunges and deadlifts as part of my job.
How am I supposed to do any of that with this thing inside me? ”
Hyunwoo shrugs, one shoulder lifting and dropping with an unbothered ease that makes me want to strangle him. “I’m sure you’ll adjust. You’re athletic and adaptable. It’s one of your best qualities.”
“One of my best—” I cut myself off, pressing my palms against my eyes.
The plug shifts again as I move and I feel a fresh cramp roll through my lower belly, Hyunwoo’s cum sloshing inside me, sealed in by the silicone stopper currently making itself very much at home in my ass.
I think about arguing more. I think about pulling the plug out myself and throwing it at his head.
I think about the negative pregnancy test sitting on the bathroom counter and the fact that every day I’m not pregnant is another day I have to keep doing this.
“Fine,” I say through my teeth. “But if this thing falls out while I’m spotting a client on the bench press, I’m blaming you.”
Hyunwoo grins, wide and bright and completely shameless, and reaches over to ruffle my hair like I’m one of his dogs who just learned a new trick. “That’s my boy. Now—do you want first shower, or should I order food while you rest?”
I bat his hand away from my head and lie back down on the bed, carefully, slowly, every movement making me acutely aware of the plug filling me up. My body aches in places I didn’t know could ache. My hole throbs around the silicone. My womb feels heavy and warm and full.
“Food,” I say to the ceiling. “And it better be something good.”
Thus begins what I will privately refer to as the worst week of my life.
The first day is the hardest. I wake up in my bed with the plug still seated inside me from the night before, Hyunwoo’s cum heavy and warm behind the silicone seal, and the second I swing my legs over the side of the mattress and stand up, the shift in gravity sends the weight of it pressing down against my prostate.
My cock stiffens to a stubborn half-hard state before I’ve even made it to the bathroom, and no amount of cold water splashed on my face or aggressive thinking about unsexy things—tax forms, Manager Kim in a speedo, the mold that used to grow in the corner of my old shower—does a damn thing to make it go away.
I try sitting at the kitchen counter to eat breakfast. The plug pushes deeper when I sit, the wide body of it shifting against my walls, the base pressing flush against my rim and nudging the whole thing further up inside me.
I stand back up immediately, bracing one hand on the counter, and eat my cereal standing.
Hyunwoo glances over from where he’s feeding the dogs and raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment, which is the closest thing to mercy he’s capable of.
Walking is a special challenge. I discover within the first fifty steps that my normal stride causes the plug to rock back and forth inside me with each step, the tapered tip bumping my prostate on every other footfall.
I have to widen my stance, adopting a slightly bow-legged gait that makes me look like I’ve just gotten off a horse after a twelve-hour ride.
The adjustment helps with the prostate stimulation but does nothing for the constant, maddening awareness of the thing filling me up, the heavy sloshing sensation in my belly that I can’t tune out no matter how hard I try.
Every time I bend over, every time I shift my weight, every time I so much as take a deep breath, I feel it.
The cum sealed inside me, the silicone holding it there, the dull pressure against my insides that keeps my cock at a perpetual annoying semi that I can’t will away and can’t do anything about because jerking off at work in the gym bathroom is a line I refuse to cross.
People notice.
Ye-eun is the first one, because Ye-eun notices everything and has the self-restraint of a golden retriever who’s spotted a squirrel.
She catches me wincing as I lower myself onto the bench in the break room during my morning gap between clients, my descent slow and careful, one hand gripping the edge of the table as I ease my weight down and feel the plug shift and press deeper.
“Okay, what’s going on with you?” she asks, setting her tablet down and giving me a look that’s half concern and half naked curiosity. “You’ve been walking like you sat on something weird all morning.”
I keep my expression neutral, which takes more effort than any deadlift I’ve ever attempted. “Pulled something in my hip flexor. It’s fine.”
“Your hip flexor,” she repeats, her eyes narrowing. “Both of them? Because you’re walking like both of your legs are broken.”
“It’s a bilateral thing,” I say, which is a term I picked up from one of my physical therapy textbooks and sounds convincing enough that Ye-eun’s expression shifts from suspicious to merely skeptical. She doesn’t push it further, but I catch her watching me throughout the morning.
My clients are less subtle about it. During my ten o’clock session with Mr. Park—the beta who cries during bicep curls—I’m demonstrating proper squat form and have to stop halfway down because the plug shifts so aggressively against my prostate that my vision blurs for a second and I have to disguise the full-body shudder as a cough.
Mr. Park asks if I’m feeling alright and I tell him I tweaked my back doing deadlifts over the weekend, which he accepts with the eager sympathy of a man who’s always looking for reasons not to exercise.
My eleven-thirty client, a college kid training for a rugby tryout, watches me grimace as I sit down on the weight bench between his sets and asks point-blank if I need to see a doctor.
I tell him I slept wrong on my neck and the pain is radiating down my spine, which is such a transparently stupid explanation that even he looks doubtful, but he’s too polite to press.
By lunchtime, my coworkers have started exchanging glances when I walk across the gym floor with my careful, gingerly stride, and I can feel the whispered speculation trailing behind me.
Manager Kim corners me by the water cooler in the early afternoon, his round face creased with genuine worry, and tells me I should take it easy for the rest of the week, maybe stick to consultation sessions instead of hands-on training if my back is giving me trouble.
I thank him and agree, mostly because the idea of demonstrating another lunge with this thing inside me makes me want to cry.
Each night I come home to Hyunwoo.
The routine is so grimly predictability that I resign myself to it by day three.
I walk through the apartment door, kick off my shoes, greet the dogs—Kal and Machete are always waiting by the entrance, tails going, oblivious to their owner’s deranged reproductive schemes—and then Hyunwoo appears from wherever he’s been, usually the living room or his home office, and gives me that look. The one that says it’s time.
I follow him to the bedroom. He sits on the edge of the bed and I position myself across his lap or on all fours or whatever configuration he’s decided on that evening, and he reaches between my cheeks and grips the base of the plug.
The removal is always the worst part—my hole has been clenched around the narrow neck all day, and when Hyunwoo pulls, the wide body of the plug stretches my rim open as it comes out, the widest point making me gasp and grip whatever’s nearest as my hole spreads and then contracts with a wet, squelching pop that echoes and makes my face burn every single time.
Then he replaces it with his cock. He slides into me easily now—my hole loose and slick from a full day of being plugged, the cum and lube inside me providing more than enough lubrication—and fucks me with the thorough, focused attention of someone completing a task he’s committed to doing well.
He drives deep, angling for my womb the way he’s learned to do, and adds fresh cum to the load already sealed inside me, filling me until my belly cramps and I can feel the warmth spreading through my core.
Then the plug goes back in, my hole stretching around the bulge one more time before closing around the neck, and I’m sealed up again for the night.
I endure it with increasing resignation.
There’s no talking Hyunwoo out of something once he’s set his mind to it.
Besides, every time Hyunwoo fucks me, he makes sure I come too.
Multiple times, usually. He works my prostate with his cock, finds the angle that makes me see stars, wraps his hand around my dick and strokes me through orgasms that leave me shaking and gasping into the sheets.
It would be thoughtful if the context weren’t so absurd.
And outside of the sex, Hyunwoo takes care of me in every other way.
Good food every night—he orders from the restaurants I like or cooks something himself, which he’s surprisingly decent at when he bothers to try.
The apartment is always stocked with my snacks and drinks.
He drives me to and from work without being asked, the Maserati pulling up outside the gym at seven sharp every evening.
He doesn’t push my boundaries beyond what we’ve agreed to, doesn’t try to escalate, doesn’t make it weird.
I’m strict about our rules, and he respects them.