Chapter 1

Kim Taehyung’s first sin was the way she walked. No one arrived at Haneul College like she did. The sound of her heels on the floor—the slow, patient steps—was both warning and invitation, a siren’s approach. Every morning, the men in the faculty lounge, the janitor dusting in the hallway all of them stopped to look. The sight of her legs alone was enough to justify a reputation.

Today she wore navy shorts—almost a suggestion, barely stitched together, the hem biting into the pale of her thighs. Above, a sleeveless blouse, white and ribbed, with an open neck that said everything she never would. Her breasts filled the fabric to bursting, the line of her cleavage straight as an ax-blade. When she bent over to write on the board, you could see the pale shadows of her breast pressing against the cotton, nipples threatening to break free with every breath.

“Christ,” muttered Professor Park, lingering at the edge of her lecture hall. “How does she get away with it?”

The undergrads were worse, which was understandable. Taehyung’s lectures always filled in seconds, boys at the front with chins propped on knuckles, girls in the back alternating between silent admiration and murder-plotting. Even the oldest men on campus found themselves detouring past her office just to see what she was wearing that day. She was a walking sex crime, a threat to every male’s ability to maintain eye contact.

Still, Taehyung never acknowledged it. Never flirted, never smiled in that inviting, permission-giving way.

The rumours were as constant, She was sleeping with the President. She was a high-class call girl in Seoul before taking up the teaching gig. She was a lesbian, frigid, addicted to plastic surgery. The truth was simpler: she was married, and no one had ever seen her husband. There was a gold band on her finger, a thin one, never removed, but if you asked about him, she just shrugged which only stoked the fire further. Maybe he was a ghost. Maybe she was a widow. But none of that stopped the students from trying.

Today, as always, the first five minutes of her seminar were a performance. She breezed in, late, unsmiling, dropped her bag on the desk, and went straight to the syllabus. Even from a distance, the scent of her perfume—something powdery, something that hovered between expensive and forbidden—drove half the boys to distraction. Their eyes went everywhere else: up the bare stretch of thigh, along the silvery chain at her neck, over the single mole on her collarbone. When she moved, it was as though she’d practiced every gesture for maximum effect. She leaned forward, and a boy in the front row stifled a moan. She reached to erase something, and her blouse gaped, giving the entire left side of the room a direct shot at her breasts. She must have known—must have felt the air on her skin, or the bead of sweat running down between them—but she never adjusted her shirt, never tugged at the hem.

The girls watched her, too, a few with open hostility, more with something like awe. A transfer student, a pretty girl with purple hair, couldn’t help herself. She waited until Taehyung had her back turned, then leaned over to her neighbour and whispered: “I wonder if she even wears underwear.”

“Don’t care,” the boy beside her replied. “I’d marry her tomorrow.”

The first time Jeon Jungkook saw her, he didn’t even know who she was. It was August, the week before classes started, and he’d been running drills on the outdoor courts while the rest of the team loafed in the shade, flapping fans at their red faces. He was used to being watched—there was always a gaggle of girls at the fence, giggling as they tried not to be caught staring. But that afternoon, a woman had cut across the quad, striding straight through the thick of their ogling, not even pausing as she passed by.

He’d looked up at the precise moment her shadow fell over his sneakers. That split second was enough to burn the image onto his corneas: legs for days, shorts so tight and so white that the sunlight actually glowed through the fabric, a slim torso crowned by two of the most perfect tits he’d ever seen, their tips faintly visible beneath a cream-colored tank. Long black hair, fluttering out behind her. The smell of jasmine and something musky, sweat-damp but unhurried, like she had nowhere she needed to be except ahead of everyone else.

She didn’t look at him, not even when the ball rolled to her feet. She simply nudged it back with one pointed toe, like she was dismissing him.

“Bro, who the fuck is that?” Hoseok had muttered, wiping a palm down his face.

Jungkook didn’t know, but he spent the rest of the day replaying the moment. That night, he jerked off three times, each session more intense than the last, until the rawness of his wrist was matched only by the burn behind his eyes.

He saw her again a week later, standing at the head of the lecture hall. The realization hit him in the gut: this was Professor Kim Taehyung, the faculty legend, the woman every man on campus both lusted after and feared. Rumour had it she was untouchable, possibly a lesbian, possibly married to some shadowy figure overseas. It didn’t matter. Jungkook had never cared about boundaries. If he wanted something, he took it.

Within two months, Jungkook had racked up a body count that made his old high school teammates look like priests. The cheer squad called him “the God of Sex” (to his face, no less). He’d fucked the student council president in a storage closet, two of the field hockey forwards in the same night, and even one of the assistant librarians on a dare. It wasn’t about notching his belt—he genuinely liked women, liked the chase, the way their bodies yielded and clawed and begged.

But with Taehyung, the wanting was different. It was pure chemical. She never once gave him the time of day, never looked his way even when he put his feet up on the front row and grinned with all his teeth. She cut him off in class, once, with a dry “If you’re not going to contribute, Mr. Jeon, you can leave.” Instead of humiliation, he felt a spike of heat that turned his whole face red.

He started to follow her—not in a stalker way, he told himself, just…observing. He’d linger at the end of her classes, watch the way her calves flexed as she perched on the desk, see how her shirt would ride up to expose a line of perfect lower back when she stretched to write something on the board. Every night, he’d shut himself in the bathroom, jacking off to the memory of her voice—icy and bored, calling him out for not paying attention.

If he’d had any self-respect, maybe he would have tried to talk to her like a normal person. But Jungkook was an addict, and Taehyung was his drug. He needed more than a conversation. He wanted to ruin her, to watch the icy composure melt off her face, to make her say his name.

Jungkook always chose the boldest ones after a game night, the ones who’d offer him a taste of their lip gloss right there in the locker room, who’d grip his cock with practiced hunger. He’d fuck them until their nails drew blood, until their thighs shook, but it never, ever measured up. They weren’t her. They didn’t leave bruises on his brain.

Jungkook told himself he could wait, that eventually she’d have to crack. But the fantasy kept growing, mutating into something that left him restless and sore. It wasn’t just about sex anymore—it was about power, about making the untouchable, touchable.

He told himself he’d only watch.

It was late on a Wednesday, the campus mostly deserted, anemic sunlight slanting through the venetian blinds and striping the hallway in prison bars. Jungkook had meant to drop off his overdue essay and maybe, if she was there, try to make her laugh. But when he rounded the corner, he saw her through the frosted glass: Taehyung, slumped forward at her desk, a fist tucked under her chin and her hair spilling in a black river over a pile of papers.

She looked defenceless, a cartoon villainess undone by exhaustion. Her mouth was open just a little, lips damp and parted. The white top was even more scandalous up close—a bralette, barely, with thin straps and a plunging neckline, the fabric stretched so tight it threatened to split with the force of her breathing. The black skirt was laughable; if she shifted, even slightly, it would ride up and flash her entire ass to anyone passing by.

Jungkook’s heartbeat doubled. He stood there, unmoving, feeling the pulse in his cock. He’d never seen her this way—vulnerable, slack, not braced for the world’s stares. It was obscene, but also perfect.

He waited. Five seconds, then ten. Nothing. She didn’t stir, didn’t even twitch.

He looked down the hallway. Empty. The doors to the faculty offices all shut, a cleaning sign posted at the end of the corridor. Without thinking, Jungkook tried the knob. Unlocked. He slipped inside, closed the door behind him, and turned the deadbolt with a muted click.

The room was small, dusty, and hot. A single oscillating fan did nothing except ruffle the edges of the syllabi. Taehyung’s head was pillowed on her own forearm, her hair tangled with the gold chain she always wore. The straps of the bralette were thin enough to make his teeth ache; if he reached out, he could snap one with a flick of his nail.

He knew what he was doing was wrong. But the wrongness was the point.

He inched closer, quiet as a confession. Her breathing was deep, even—whatever had knocked her out, it was a heavy sleep. He bent down, just above her shoulder, and inhaled. She smelled like her: expensive perfume and sweat, a little bit of coffee and paper. Up close, he saw how the edge of her skirt cut into the plush curve of her thigh, leaving a faint pink imprint.

Jungkook’s hand hovered above her back. He wanted to touch. Needed to.

He set his palm on her shoulder blade, light as moth wings. She didn’t flinch. Slowly, he traced the line down her spine, marvelling at the heat of her skin through the threadbare fabric. When he reached the hem of her bralette, he slid his finger beneath it, grazing the bare dip of her back.

Still nothing.

He pressed a little harder, testing. Taehyung’s body rocked with the contact, but she only exhaled, sagging further into the desk. Emboldened, Jungkook let his hand linger, then travel upward, tracing the edge of the strap to where it knotted behind her neck. He tugged it gently, half-hoping she’d wake and curse him out. She didn’t.

He walked around to the other side of the desk. Her face in sleep was different: less severe, almost sweet. Lashes tangled, a flush along her cheek. There was a smudge of pen on her jawline. He reached out and brushed it away with his thumb.

She didn’t move.

Jungkook’s other hand shook a little as he pinched the edge of her bralette and pulled it sideways, exposing one milky shoulder, then the gentle slope of her breast. He could see the pink of her nipple through the cloth; the closer he looked, the more his mouth watered. He imagined pinching it, sucking until the colour deepened and she gasped.

He did it. Slowly, so slowly, he inched the bralette to the side, careful not to wake her. The nipple popped free, a perfect, rose-pink coin standing up in the cool air. Jungkook pressed his lips to it, at first just a kiss, then a hungry, open-mouthed suck. He flicked it with his tongue, circled, nipped it. His cock throbbed, stiff and unforgiving inside his jeans.

She made a noise—a soft, throaty hum, not quite awake. Jungkook froze, mouth glued to her breast, heart slamming in his chest. But she only shifted, let out a tiny moan, and settled back into sleep.

He did it again, greedier this time. Sucked and nibbled, then dragged his tongue down the curve of her breast, leaving a shiny trail. With his free hand, he pushed her skirt up, exposing the creamy stretch of her thigh, the triangle of lacey white panties at the apex. He could see the outline of her pussy through the mesh, lips plump and inviting.

He touched her there. Soft at first, just a fingertip tracing the edge of the fabric, then more firmly, rubbing slow circles until the warmth bled through. She was damp—maybe from the heat, maybe from his touch, he didn’t care. He pressed harder, feeling the lips give under his thumb, then slid his finger beneath the elastic and found her clit.

Still, she slept.

Jungkook was desperate now. He unzipped his jeans, pulled his cock free, and stroked himself while kneading her breast in his other hand. He imagined what it would be like if she woke up right now, eyes wide, lips parted in outrage or hunger. He pictured her crawling onto the desk, bending over, begging for it.

He wanted to fuck her, to ruin her completely. But he knew if he tried to take it further, she might wake. He didn’t dare. Instead, he shifted her skirt higher, exposing more of the panty, and lined up the head of his cock with the slick, white triangle. He jacked himself with furious energy, knuckles white, eyes fixed on the way her nipple stood up, glistening from his spit.

He came in a rush, heat spilling out in thick, ropey spurts across her panties and the soft skin of her thigh. The sight made him almost delirious. He wiped the tip of his cock on her, leaving a creamy streak that soaked through the lace.

When it was over, he fixed her clothes—pulled the bralette up, smoothed the skirt down, careful to leave the evidence hidden but accessible. He paused, admiring his work, the red flush on her neck, the dampness at the apex of her thighs.

He stepped back, zipped himself up, and unlocked the door. Before he left, he looked once more at her sleeping, oblivious and perfect, the lingering shine of his saliva on her nipple, the cooling stickiness on her panties.

He slipped out, shut the door, and walked down the hallway, pulse still racing, unable to stop himself from grinning.

Taehyung surfaced from sleep the way she always did: disoriented, irritated, a film of sweat clinging to her hairline. For a long minute she stared at the edge of the desk, the faint imprint of her arm, the dry tick of the wall clock. Her mouth tasted sour. The sky outside was darker than she’d expected; she’d lost more than an hour to oblivion.

She stretched, feeling the usual post-nap stiffness, and smoothed her skirt down over her thighs. That was when she noticed it—a tacky coldness at her breast, a dampness at the crotch of her underwear that was more gluey than wet. She pressed her palm to her chest and felt the sticky ring around her nipple, right through the fabric. It clung to her skin, almost as if she’d spilled something, but there was nothing spilled, no cup overturned.

She frowned, tugged the bralette into place, and pressed her thighs together. There, too: a patch of stickiness, quickly warming to her body heat, faintly itchy against the curve of her labia. She ran her tongue over her lips, thinking. She hadn’t been this damp even during her worst mid-July lectures.

Had she drooled in her sleep? Maybe she’d shifted and spilled her tea, or sweat so much it beaded on her chest. She considered heading to the restroom to clean up, but a glance at the clock told her she was already late for seminar.

She gathered her notes, pulled her cardigan tighter across her torso, and hurried down the hall. The lace at her breast chafed, pinching every time she moved; the feeling at her pussy grew stickier, as if the dampness was spreading. She pressed her legs together as she walked, hoping the friction would sort it out.

She moved more than usual, pacing the aisles, stretching her arms above her head, trying to shake off the sensation. The lace of her panties grew slicker with every minute, and she found herself shifting her hips for relief.

When she reached the end of the class, she was relieved to close her notebook and excuse the students. She retreated to her office, peeled off the cardigan, and sat for a moment in the muggy silence. She pressed her palm to her breast again, felt the residue catch on her fingers. She sniffed—no odor, but the texture was unmistakable. She almost laughed, thinking of the locker-room stories about male faculty, the jokes about boys and their messes.

She typed a note to herself: Buy new lingerie. She wasn’t sure if the problem was the cheap fabric or her own body’s betrayal.

That evening, after her last class, Taehyung stripped in the faculty washroom, running her thumb over the still-sticky spot at her nipple, the coolness now dried to a faint, powdery ring. Down below, the lace was mottled, a crusted bloom just at the apex. She touched it, felt a shiver, and wondered what kind of dream had left her so thoroughly marked. She didn’t linger. She changed, washed her hands, and left the office behind, the mystery folded quietly away with the rest of her secrets.