Next Phase Begins (Part-1)

The weekend was a hollow, echoing thing. A sharp contrast from the last five days, his first week at SM. His sleek, minimalist apartment, once a sanctuary, now felt like a waiting room. The silence was punctuated only by the persistent hum of his phone—the digital lifeline to the world he’d irrevocably joined.

Ningning’s stream of consciousness was a balm. A sun-dappled photo of waffles. Her army of pastel plushies arranged with military precision on her duvet. A blurry, off-center shot of her feet in oversized, fluffy socks, the caption a silent siren call: Daddy’s babygirl misses you 🐣. He saved each one, a curator of her innocent bliss.

Giselle’s contact was a bolt of midnight lightning. A voice note, fifteen seconds long. No greeting. Just the low, smoky run of a new verse, lyrics half-formed but dripping with a predatory longing that hadn’t been there before. It ended with a breathy, intimate whisper directly into the mic: “Inspired by Thursday’s season. Need more… inspiration.” The click of the message ending felt like a door closing on a secret just for him.

Winter was a study in silent intensity. Nothing for forty-eight hours. Then, as Sunday evening bled into night, a single image arrived. A pencil sketch, exquisitely detailed, on heavy artist’s paper. It was a hand—a man’s hand—resting on the curve of a thigh. The lines capturing the knuckles, the subtle veins, the possessive curl of the fingers were breathtaking in their intimacy. The text below was clinical, yet it burned: Observation exercise. See you tomorrow.

Karina’s call came last, just before midnight on Sunday. Her voice was stripped of its usual commanding resonance, soft with a fatigue that sounded more emotional than physical. They spoke of inconsequential things—the weather, a new cafe in Apgujeong, the grueling rehearsal schedules. It was the mundane chatter of colleagues, of… something more. Then, just before hanging up, her tone shifted, the leader reasserting herself through the weariness. “Come to the office an hour early tomorrow. I require an emergency session.”

The line went dead. Julian held the phone, the silence in his apartment now deafening with implication. The fortress walls weren’t just scaled; they had melted away from the inside. He wasn’t an observer in their ecosystem, a gardener tending to exotic, fragile flowers. He was in the soil now. He was part of the photosynthesis.

Monday morning at the SM building was a controlled explosion of human energy. Assistants sprinted with garment bags, producers shouted into headsets, choreographers clapped complex rhythms in hallways. Julian moved through the chaos like a deep-sea current, separate and undisturbed. His office was in the quieter, more clinical wing dedicated to management and support staff—a geographical metaphor he appreciated more each day.

He exchanged a nod with the receptionist, a bland smile that felt like a mask, and turned down the hushed hallway leading to the elevators. The din of the main floor faded to a distant murmur.

The elevator arrived, empty and gleaming. He stepped in, hit the button for his floor, and watched the doors begin their slow, silent slide shut.

“Dr. Kang!”

The voice, sharp and clear, sliced through the quiet. He looked up. Karina was power-walking down the hall, her heels a rapid, purposeful tap-tap-tap on the polished floor. He slapped a hand against the ‘DOOR OPEN’ button.

She arrived at the elevator bank, a vision of calculated, devastating allure. Her dress was a confection of light pink, a mini-dress with a textured, 3D rose pattern that seemed to bloom over her curves. Thin spaghetti straps emphasized the delicate line of her shoulders and collarbones. The hem was a dare, riding high on her thighs, showcasing legs that seemed to go on forever. She stopped just outside, and for the benefit of two stylists lingering by a water cooler, she offered a perfect, ninety-degree bow, her voice sweet and formal.

“Seonsaengnim, annyeonghaseyo.”

Then she was in the elevator, brushing past him. The doors closed, sealing them in a mirrored, silent box.

The second the lock clicked, the performance evaporated. He was barely able to press on his floor button. Before Julian could even turn to face her, before he could process the scent of her perfume—jasmine and something dangerously metallic—she was on him. Her hands fisted in the lapels of his jacket, spinning him, slamming his back against the cool mirrored wall. Her mouth found his in a kiss that was hot, messy, and devoid of all weekend’s softness. It was pure hunger, a reclaiming.

“Mmh… missedyou,” she gasped against his lips, the words slurred together in the frantic exchange of tongue and teeth. One of her legs hooked around his calf, pulling their bodies flush. He could feel the heat of her through the thin fabric of the dress, the hard points of her nipples digging into his chest. His hands flew to her waist, gripping the impossibly small span of it, holding her steady as the elevator began its ascent with a gentle lurch.

The kiss was a conflagration that stole time. The soft ding of their arrival was a splash of ice water. Karina broke away with a wet, gasping sound, her lips swollen and glistening, her lipstick smeared at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes were wide, dazed for a microsecond before sharpening into alertness. She shoved away from him, her hands flying to smooth down her dress, which had ridden up to reveal a glimpse of stark white lace panties. She tugged it down, a quick, flustered motion.

The doors slid open. Three people from the accounting department stood in the hallway, chatting. Julian stepped out first, his face a mask of professional calm, his body humming with adrenaline and unslaked desire. “This way, Miss Jimin,” he said, his voice miraculously steady.

“Thank you, Seonsaengnim,” she replied, her voice a little too bright, too high. She followed him, her steps quick and clipped, a perfect picture of an idol visiting her wellness director.

The moment his office door closed behind them, the lock engaging with a solid thunk, the tension snapped into a new, more urgent shape.

“No talking,” Karina ordered, her breath still coming fast. She pushed him backwards, her hands on his chest, until his calves hit his desk chair. “Sit.”

He sat. She didn’t wait. She climbed onto his lap, straddling him, her knees sinking into the plush leather on either side of his hips. The pink dress pooled around her thighs. She reclaimed his mouth, her kiss slower now but deeper, more possessive. Her tongue mapped his, her hands cradled his face. She tasted of mint and the black coffee he knew she drank like water.

“I missed your taste,” she murmured, pulling back just enough to speak, her forehead resting against his. Her eyes were dark pools, the practiced coolness replaced by a raw, wanting heat. “I had a dream. About this. About you filling my mouth. I’m going to get my fill for the day, Doctor. Consider it preventive care.”

With that, she slid off his lap, her descent fluid and deliberate. She knelt on the plush carpet between his legs, looking up at him from under her lashes. There was no submission in her gaze, only a thrilling, predatory ownership. Her delicate hands went to his belt, the rasp of the leather deafening in the quiet room. The button, the zipper—she worked them with an efficient, devastating familiarity.

His cock, already hard from the elevator and the frantic kissing, sprang free into the cool air, then into the warmer, waiting cage of her hand. She fisted him, giving him a slow, firm stroke, a bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip.

“Hello, handsome,” she whispered to it, her breath a warm ghost over the sensitive head. “I missed you, too.”

Then she leaned forward and took him into her mouth.

It wasn’t a tentative exploration. It was a conquest. Her lips stretched into a perfect ‘O’ as she engulfed the head, her tongue swirling around the corona before she began to descend, taking more and more of his length into the wet, sucking heat of her mouth. She was an artist, a virtuoso. One of her hands remained at the base of his shaft, working in tandem with her mouth, while the other cupped his balls, her fingers applying a gentle, kneading pressure that made his hips jerk involuntarily.

She took him all the way, until his tip nudged the back of her throat. He felt the faint, thrilling constriction, heard her soft gagging sound, which she turned into a low, vibrating hum of pleasure. Then she began to move, establishing a slow, deep, hypnotic rhythm. Up, until just the head remained between her lips, lapped and suckled. Down, until his entire world was the slick, tight, perfect vacuum of her throat.

And her eyes. They never left his. She watched him watch her, her gaze blazing with a mix of triumph and deep, carnal enjoyment. It was the most intimate, the most exposing thing he’d ever experienced. She was worshipping him, and commanding him, all at once. Her free hand slid up his thigh, her nails scratching lightly through the fabric of his trousers.

“You taste so good,” she moaned around him, the vibration traveling straight to his core. Her pace began to quicken, the bobs of her head becoming more urgent, more rhythmic. The wet, slick sounds were obscene and beautiful. “Gonna make you cum right here… in my leader’s mouth… you’d like that, wouldn’t you? My makeup ruined… my throat full…”

Julian was unraveling. One hand tangled in her sleek black hair, not guiding, just holding on, feeling the silken strands against his fingers. The other gripped the arm of his chair, his knuckles white. The coiling pressure in his gut was a live wire, sparking, ready to blow. He was hurtling towards the edge, her name a desperate prayer on his lips.

Knock-knock.

Two rapid, firm raps on the office door.

The world froze.

Karina went rigid, her mouth still full of him. Julian’s entire body locked in a spasm of interrupted ecstasy and sheer panic.

For a heartbeat, there was only the sound of their ragged, muffled breaths. Then, moving with a speed born of pure instinct, Karina pulled off him with a wet, gasping pop. Julian fumbled, his hands shaking, trying to stuff his painfully hard, glistening cock back into his trousers. It was a clumsy, hopeless struggle.

“Who is it?” Karina hissed, scrambling to her feet. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing her lipstick. Her hair was disheveled from his grip, her eyes wide with alarm. “Giselle isn’t for another hour!”

“I don’t know,” Julian whispered back, his voice strangled. He finally managed to zip his fly, the fabric straining obscenely. “No one else is scheduled.”

They stared at each other, the air electric with imminent disaster. Another knock came, louder, more impatient.

Karina’s eyes darted around the room, landing on the large, solid oak desk. “I can’t be seen like this!” she whispered, a frantic edge to her voice. Her dress was wrinkled, her aura of composure utterly shattered.

Before Julian could respond, she dropped to her knees again—not in worship, but in flight—and crawled underneath the desk, into the shadowy cavity where the chair was tucked. It was a tight fit, but she pulled her legs in, curling herself into a ball amidst the dust and the computer cables.

“What are you doing?!” Julian mouthed, bending down slightly.

“Do you have a better idea?!” she shot back, her voice a strained whisper from the darkness. Her eyes glittered up at him, furious and scared.

He didn’t. Heart hammering against his ribs, he took two long strides to the door, ran a hand through his own hair in a futile attempt to look composed, and pulled it open.

It was not Giselle.

Standing in the hallway, his expression an unreadable mask of corporate calm, was Tak Young-jun, the CEO of SM Entertainment. He was impeccably dressed in a tailored grey suit, his hands clasped loosely in front of him.

* * *