Chapter Five #4
No pheromones. Hyunwoo keeps his scent locked down during sex, his alpha musk reined in tight even when I can tell from the tension in his jaw and the way his pupils blow wide that his body wants to flood the room with it.
I won’t budge on this one. His pheromones make my head foggy and my body go pliant in ways I can’t control, and I refuse to give up the only thing keeping me grounded during these sessions.
No foreplay beyond the necessary prep. Fingers for stretching, lube for comfort, and that’s it. No drawn-out touching, no exploration, no lingering hands on parts of my body that don’t need to be involved.
No kissing. I made this rule on the first night and haven’t had to enforce it because Hyunwoo hasn’t tried, but I state it out loud every few days anyway just to make sure we’re clear.
Kissing is intimate in a way that sex, strangely, isn’t—at least not the way we do it, which is more mechanical than anything resembling romance.
Kissing would make it real. Kissing would make it mean something.
And absolutely, under no circumstances, any biting. Hyunwoo’s mouth does not go near my neck. Period. Every time he leans close, every time his breath hits my shoulder, I’m aware.
Hyunwoo complies without argument on all counts, though I can’t help feeling that he’s enjoying this whole baby-making business more than he lets on.
There’s a gleam in his eye during our sessions that goes beyond duty, a certain eagerness in the way he reaches for me when I come through the bedroom door, a suspicious enthusiasm about the “research” he keeps doing that results in new positions and techniques and angles that he wants to try. He’s having fun. I’m almost sure of it.
I would never admit it out loud. Would rather chew glass than say it to Hyunwoo’s smug face. But it’s not entirely unpleasant for me either.
I could do without the butt plug. I could absolutely do without spending my entire workday with a silicone plug in my ass and cum sloshing around in my belly while I try to teach a middle-aged man how to do a proper push-up.
And I’m not entirely sure I’m a fan of anal sex as a concept—the idea of it still makes me uncomfortable when I think about it in the abstract, when I’m not in the moment and my body isn’t overriding my brain with sensation.
But the orgasms are not terrible. They’re some of the best orgasms I’ve ever had, if I’m being honest with myself, which I try not to be.
Intense, full-body events that start in my core and spread outward until my fingers and toes go numb, that leave me shaking and boneless and unable to form coherent sentences for minutes afterward.
Sex with women was good—I enjoyed it, I sought it out, I had no complaints.
But it never did this to me. Never made me come so hard I forgot my own name, never wrung three or four orgasms out of me in a single session, never left me so thoroughly spent that I fell asleep within seconds of Hyunwoo pulling out.
It’s still a little weird that it’s Hyunwoo. And it’s still a little weird that it’s not a woman. But my body has stopped caring, and that gap between what I think I should feel and what I actually feel is getting narrower by the day.
Which is disturbing, so I don’t examine it too closely. I put up with Hyunwoo’s increasingly creative schemes to get me pregnant faster so that hopefully we can be done with the whole sex thing before I have to confront what it means that I’m starting to look forward to it.
Hyunwoo stops plugging me after a week and gives me a break to—as he phrases it—“let my seed take.” I’ve never been more relieved to have an empty ass.
The first morning I wake up without the plug is like a religious experience.
I sit down on a chair without wincing. I walk with a normal stride.
I do squats at the gym without my vision going white.
But three weeks pass, another pregnancy test comes up negative, and we’re back at it again. The same cycle. Sex, plugging, waiting, testing, disappointment.
I’m starting to wonder if maybe my omega parts don’t actually work. Maybe my body just isn’t built for this despite the secondary gender status on my ID card.
Hyunwoo says we’ll give it another few weeks and then maybe consult his private doctor, someone discreet who can run tests without raising questions.
“There are fertility specialists who work with omega patients off the books,” he tells me one evening while we’re eating takeout on the couch, Kal’s head in my lap and Machete curled at Hyunwoo’s feet.
“High-end clinics that cater to wealthy families who want to keep things quiet. My family’s used them before. ”
I nod and steal one of his dumplings, which he lets me do without complaint.
I’m not complaining either, not really. Even if the whole taking-a-cock-up-the-ass-on-a-regular-basis thing isn’t ideal, my life has objectively improved in every other measurable way since I moved in.
Free rent in a luxury apartment with heated floors and a bathroom bigger than my old studio.
Unlimited good food, both ordered and home-cooked.
The company of two dogs who greet me every evening like I’m the most important person in the world.
And when we’re not trying to get me pregnant, Hyunwoo and I are our usual selves—gaming until 2 AM and arguing about strategy, eating at whatever new restaurant has caught Hyunwoo’s eye, jogging with the dogs along the river path in the early morning when the city is still quiet and the air is cool enough to breathe.
Bickering about nothing. Laughing about everything.
It’s like having my best friend as a roommate, which is essentially what we are, just with the added complication of regular sex and a shared goal of putting a baby in my womb. Normal roommate stuff.
So as summer deepens into late August, the heat outside thickening, I hold out and put up with it. But something has to give eventually, right?