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When Okgyeong was eleven years old, she pretended to stumble and threw her body into her best friend. The girl fell in the cobblestone street and tore her stockings at the knees. She bled and cried, and Okgyeong cupped her slender calf and thumbed the edges of the wound she'd made, her chest tight, her belly hot. She crooned soothing words and felt like a prince in a story, saving a pretty girl, adored and adoring.
The girl eventually moved away, and Okgyeong never learned what she tasted like, despite wondering and wondering and wondering.
Now she knows exactly how a girl tastes.
Yoon Jeongnyeon does not. She doesn't even know to wonder, Okgyeong muses, as she coaxes the girl out of her clothes in the rented flat where she's been exiled for the season, a place to lick her wounds and give the papers time to find someone else to devour.
"You don't need to help me," Jeongnyeon stutters, not as confident here as she'd been in the street letting her heaven-sent voice crack forth from her chest like a roll of thunder. Still, she lifts her arms obediently, like a child resigned to a thorough, deserved scrubbing. She turns her back to Okgyeong, and her breath hitches when Okgyeong's fingers find the tucked-in end of the band of cotton she wears over her chest.
Okgyeong spins her slowly, unwrapping Jeongnyeon until she stands to face Okgyeong, a crease of pink skin across her chest where the fabric was too taut. She has small breasts and dark nipples and Okgyeong smiles the way someone would smile if they weren't thinking about pinching each tight peak with her teeth.
A shallow basin of water rests beside them, freshly warmed from the kettle. Though it's late summer, the heat will feel good, and Jeongnyeon must know this, because her gaze darts to the wisps of steam covetously. "My sister never gets all of my back," Jeongnyeon admits, her cheeks pinkened.
"We don't have the luxury of being bashful backstage," Okgyeong says warmly, making this about Jeongnyeon's dream. As predicted, it makes the girl's eyes gleam like sun on the water, determination eclipsing her misgivings. "All the way off," she coaxes, reaching for Jeongnyeon's baji.
"Ah," Jeongnyeon manages, a sound of surprise and swallowed-back protest. She is small, but proportioned in a way that her legs seem long. Crouching to help her step out of clothes, Okgyeong allows her knuckles to skim through the downy hair on Jeongnyeon's calves.
Smiling, reassuring, she looks up at the girl. Her pubic hair is thick and her body is muscled from hard work, shaped differently from a dancer's, shaped by different motions. "Hold still," Okgyeong says, wetting a washcloth. "I'll take care of you."
"Sunbae," Jeongyeon murmurs. It's closer to a protest this time, but her voice is unwavering. She's covering her breasts with her forearms, maybe unaware, maybe only protecting her heart from wishing too much.
Okgyeong can't remember what it feels like to wish for something that much. Desire used to feel like a bruise, maybe, just under her ribcage, buried too deep to press on properly. Now, instead of dreaming of becoming a star in the sky, Okgyeong dreams of finding new aches to dig her thumbs into, new wounds to inflict, fresh blood to lap at — so she can feel one fucking thing other than crushing, endless boredom.
"Sunbae." This time it's a question steeped in concern. Jeongnyeon has caught her mind drifting, perhaps even seen her forgetting to smile.
"Put your foot here," Okgyeong says, tapping a low stool.
For a moment, Jeongnyeon hesitates. The wet, warm cloth is at the inside of her knee, and she is not a child being scrubbed by her mother. Realization dawns, a faint widening of her eyes, a shift in the tempo of her breathing.
"Good girl," Okgyeong says, kissing the muscled front of Jeongnyeon's thigh when she complies. That slight shift in stance has exposed the folds of her, exposed hair already matted down with slickness. "Give me your hand."
Breathing harder, Jeongnyeon offers one small, cold hand. She's nervous. It makes Okgyeong feel — God it makes her feel. She takes Jeongnyeon's fingers and guides them between her legs, pressing the calloused tip against her slit.
"A singer must listen to their body," Okgyeong says calmly, ignoring the girl's startled whimper. "Notice when your heart is beating faster. Notice when your breath is too tight. Notice when you start to sweat. You sweat here when your body is prepared for you to receive. Did you know that?"
"I wasn't — I didn't think about," Jeongnyeon starts, fine tremors running through her hand as she clearly forces herself not to jerk it away. Her legs are trembling. Water drips from the cloth down her thigh and her calf. It pools at her feet. "I've never. It just does that sometimes."
"When you listen to your body, you'll learn how to tap into those responses when you need them. You don't pretend to be in love on stage, you are in love. You don't fake desire. Or longing. Or grief. You find them within you and you loosen them, you release what you need to feel and you feel it," Okgyeong says, forgetting, for a moment, that she doesn't believe this anymore. Forgetting that she's tormenting a sweet girl, forgetting that she forgot how to love Hyerang when they're not under the lights. She catches her breath. "I want you to feel it. Tell me what you notice about your body right now."
There is nothing like a girl who believes her life depends on making a good impression on her seniors. And maybe Jeongnyeon's life does depend on it. Her world is very small.
Jeongnyeon swallows audibly. "I'm shaking like it's cold. I'm breathing like I've been running. I'm — I'm wet. I'm sorry. I don't know why. I'm sorry, Sunbae. I didn't mean to do that."
"Don't be ashamed," Okgyeong says, more fiercely than she intends to. She wants to devour this girl's desire and eagerness and even her fear, but she does not wish to taste her shame or leave a stain on her that might lead her to believe that her body is filthy. Considering that makes her feel, too, but it makes her feel the razor's edge of the precise sensation she once — often — sought oblivion to dull. Shame has no place here. "This is the root of you, Jeongnyeon-ah. You are powerful. This is your core, it's yours."
Wide-eyed and tearful, Jeongnyeon nods, but she clearly does not understand, and that's all right. Okgyeong will show her.
"Have you used your fingers to feel good like this?" she asks, already knowing the answer. When Jeongnyeon shakes her head, the razor's edge retracts and Okgyeong is once more powerful, once more a prince holding a girl close, teaching her the wonders of a world she has never imagined. "There's nothing wrong with it. I'll show you."
She rewets the cloth and sweeps it between Jeongnyeon's legs. Jeongnyeon whines. Her fingers have drifted away from her slit, and her short nails scratch a pink trail across her sharp hip bone and the flat of her belly.
"Tell me what you feel," Okgyeong says.
"I feel feverish."
"The heat inside you needs to be released. Otherwise it can make you ill," Okgyeong says. "You have to clear it out, open that space in your core."
"Will that help?" Jeongnyeon asks, her voice breaking sweetly as she wet cloth slides between her legs again. "Will it help me sing?"
"Yes." This isn't a lie. But Okgyeong would have said it either way. "I'm going to show you. Hold onto my shoulder so you don't topple over."
And then she drops the cloth and uses her thumbs to part the folds and tuck and stroke at Jeongnyeon's fine tufts of hair until the raw pink pearl of her is exposed. Jeongnyeon holds her shoulders, grip fierce and painful. It feels — it feels.
She kisses Jeongnyeon's slick, untouched cunt, using her tongue to stroke her, and Jeongyeon lets out a shaky, low whine. "Tell me what you notice," she says, before tapping her tongue there again, mapping out her tender places.
"It tickles, like it's too much. But I still like it. Sunbae — are you sure you should be doing this?"
"It's going to tickle until it feels like you're breaking."
"Will it hurt? I don't care if it does. I just want to know."
It takes Okgyeong a moment to respond, the sweetness of this darling girl catching in her throat like sticky candy. "I won't hurt you. I'm going to do something that feels scary now, but it won't hurt. It's going to help you find your core."
"Yes, sunbae," Jeongnyeon whispers. Her narrow hips are starting to sway involuntarily, seeking more of the careful licks and kisses that Okgyeong applies between her words of reassurance. She's so wet now it feels like syrup on Okyeong's chin and lips.
Okgyeong doesn't even have to wet her finger. It slides into the startling heat of Jeongnyeon's cunt like a blade into a sheath. She, too, must notice her body, must notice that she wants to drive into Jeongnyeon ruthlessly, wants to take her the way she takes Hyerang, not a prince protecting a maiden but a devil throwing her down, ravishing her, stealing her virtue and her heart, making her feel, feel.
She notices. She makes her finger gentle, makes the faintest beckoning motion to coax a startled cry out of this sweet girl who has never fucked herself.
"Breathe," she instructs, a little breathless herself. "Let it build like a wave coming to shore. This is your power, Jeongnyeon-ah." Fuck, she wants to ruin her, and the wanting feels electric.
She wants to watch it happen, and wipes her mouth roughly before devoting both hands to the task. Her thumb, soft and careful, rubbing rhythmically over Jeongnyeon's swollen root as her finger presses against the soft wall of her cunt like a heartbeat, like a drumbeat.
Clutching the edge of a table and the round of Okgyeong's shoulder, Jeongnyeon closes her eyes and vocalizes mindlessly, and it's like music no mortal could put down to paper. Rolling, low sounds — frantic, percussive cries. These are sounds that can only be wrung from the unselfconscious, from one willing to surrender to the composition of their undoing. For a moment, Okgyeong feels holy. And then Jeongnyeon clenches around her and lets out a ragged, long cry, her body bucking helplessly, her release transcendent in its violence.
Okgyeong rides it along with her, stroking the base of her belly, petting the mound of hair that's wet with spit and slick. She withdraws her finger and wipes her hand on Jeongnyeon's thigh and catches her when the girl's legs finally give out.
"Shhh, shhh," she soothes, wiping Jeongyeon's forehead, drinking in every overwhelmed, wet gasp.
Jeongnyeon, to her amazement, doesn't cry. So many of them do, that first time, unsure if what they did was right or wrong, disarmed by losing control. But this girl, this living antithesis to boredom itself, she growls with the effort to steady her breathing, and seemingly unaware that she's as naked as a babe in Okgyeong's arms, asks excitedly, "And now do I sing?