Author's note: This is third story in the series "The Corrupting of Nikki Kim." I recommend reading the two preceding stories first, but there's probably enough context in this one that it could be read as a standalone. I know my stories are on the longer side, but I try to invest in building tension and realism because I think it makes for a hotter payoff in the end. The girls in my stories don't just fuck at the drop of a hat because I don't just fuck at the drop of a hat. You need to earn it.
This story is purely fictional. As always, if you like these characters, then let me know in the comments and I'll consider writing a follow-up. Happy reading.
...
When I stirred myself awake the next morning, the first thing I felt was a moment of pure bliss, my eyelids fluttering in the soft light as I yawned. I'd finally managed to get a few hours of decent sleep, and as I stretched out my arms and legs, I realized that my body felt amazing, better than it had in weeks. It was as if I'd somehow gotten younger overnight, and I sighed contentedly, marveling at the restorative powers of a good night's sleep.
But as I stretched out my arms, the bedsheets slipped off my chest, and I felt my exposed nipples gently stiffen against the morning air. I must still be dreaming, I thought to myself. Why else would I be naked in bed?
Then, I opened my eyes.
In that moment, I felt the most intense adrenaline rush of my life, a surge of abject terror and sheer, animal panic that sizzled through every cell of my being. Because I suddenly knew why I was naked, and whose bed I was in.
Beside me, lying naked on top of the covers, was my son's 19-year-old best friend, Johan. And there, resting lewdly between his legs, was his thick, uncut, teenage cock, imposing even in its flaccid state.
I sprang up and out of his bed, clamping my hand over my mouth to smother a scream, alarm bells blaring like klaxons inside my skull. Because even as my brain raced towards denial, I could see the evidence that testified to what we'd done, white gobs of dried cum knit into the dense, matted thicket of coarse black hair that encircled Johan's languid trunk.
"Oh, god," I murmured, suffocating the words with the palm of my hand. "Oh god no..."
Suddenly, a wave of nausea gripped my stomach, and I bolted into the bathroom, falling to my knees, still naked as I began to retch into the open toilet bowl.
This was impossible. This couldn't have happened. It was entirely incompatible with everything I knew about myself.
You are Nikki Kim. You're a 34-year-old Korean American, a loyal wife to your husband, and the adoring mother of two beautiful boys.
You couldn't have let that brash, aggressive white college boy fuck you.
Not with that oversized, oversexed tool of his.
Not again.
Wake up, I thought to myself as another dry heave wracked my body. This is a nightmare, and you need to wake up.
But even as I emptied the contents of my stomach, I couldn't purge the images dancing inside my mind, more vivid and terrifying than any nightmare I'd ever had.
Me, trying to strike him...
Him, pulling me down...
His tongue, pushing a pill between my lips...
His fingers, opening up my robe...
My legs, straddling his long, lean torso...
My married Asian cunt, sliding backwards, absorbing inch after inch of white teenage steel...
And then... he didn't... did he...?
I stuck my fingers down my throat, forcing myself to retch one last time, unable to name what I was trying to purge from inside my body.
No, I thought to myself. No way. I didn't... He couldn't have... I wouldn't have let him...
Finally, I stood up, trying not to look at myself in the mirror as I left the bathroom.
Somehow, Johan was still asleep, his slumber utterly undisturbed by the violent sounds of my sickness. Moving silently, I gathered up my t-shirt and sleep shorts, covering my naked body as quickly as I could. I picked my robe up off the floor and pulled it on. Then, I turned towards the nightstand, snatching the little bottle of Ambien that was sitting atop it.
That's when I noticed the old analog clock on the nightstand. I felt the bottom fall out of my stomach as my brain grudgingly registered the time on its face.
Oh my god, I thought, my chest constricting instantly, squeezing the air out of my lungs.
It was 7:23. Danny was up.
I hurried out the door of the in-law unit, closing it lightly behind me despite the panic roiling inside me. I slipped on my flip-flops and began walking as quickly as I could back across the yard to the main house.
My gaze was cast down and I could feel my face flush with guilt. I'd done my first ever walk of shame in Sydney, stumbling back from Johan's room in the middle of the night, sex-drunk and stunned at what I'd let him do to me.
But at least then, Danny had been sound asleep. Now, I knew he'd be wide awake, and I would have to face my 14-year-old son after what I'd just done.
I braced myself as I reached the sliding glass door. Sure enough, there was Danny, sitting by himself at the kitchen table.
For many kids on the spectrum, routines take on a special degree of importance, which is why I knew Danny would be awake. His alarm went off at exactly 7AM every weekday. After that, he got out of bed, used the toilet, and dressed himself. At 7:15, he walked out of his room and sat down at the table for breakfast.
The guilt I felt nearly knocked the wind out of me. Because I was supposed to be there when he sat down, ready with his breakfast and a welcoming smile. That was my job as his Mom.
But today, I wasn't there when he sat down. For ten minutes, he'd sat there by himself, waiting in silence for his breakfast, no doubt wondering where I was. My heart nearly broke just from looking at Danny through the door. I'd left him to sit there by himself, and for what? What could I have been doing that was more important than feeding my son?
Fucking his older best friend, I thought to myself bitterly. Like the slut you are.
I felt another rush of nausea, but I resisted the urge to vomit again. Instead, I opened the glass door and stepped into my house.
"Hi, honey," I said, trying to strike a cheery note. "I'm so sorry I kept you waiting! You must be really hungry."
"Where were you?" Danny asked softly.
"I went for a walk and lost track of time," I said, rushing past him into the kitchen and opening up the fridge. "What d'you want for breakfast? Eggs? Cereal?"
"Were you at Johan's playhouse?"
I felt my blood go completely cold.
"Why are you asking that, honey?" I said quietly, turning back to face my son.
"I saw you walking back from the playhouse," he said, glancing out the window.
"Well--umm--I just went down there for a minute," I said, trying to keep my composure. "To see if Johan wanted to join us for breakfast."
"Did you play with him?" Danny asked, still looking out into the backyard.
"N--no, honey, no," I murmured, practically choking on the words. "Johan's your friend, not mine. I... I wouldn't play with him."
Danny turned away from the window and looked back at me. I could feel my heart racing in my chest.
"Can I have eggs?" he asked. "And bacon?"
"Of course," I smiled brightly, a sense of relief washing over me. "Coming right up."
I pulled some eggs and bacon out of the fridge and tossed them into a pan. As the kitchen began to fill with the sounds and smells of sizzling grease, I inhaled deeply, trying to tamp down the creeping sense of self-loathing that was crawling up my spine.
Calm down, goddammit. It's okay. You're okay. He's okay.
You didn't lie to him, I reassured myself. You didn't play with Johan. Not really.
But even as I tried to grab hold of these words, they disappeared before my eyes, replaced by a dark and chilling truth.
How could I play with Johan? I was just his toy.
He was the one playing with me.
...
I managed to hold things together long enough to get through breakfast, but I asked Steve to drive the boys to school because there was something I needed to do.
After they left, I went back into my bedroom and locked the door. There, I began pacing anxiously back and forth, trying and failing to calm myself.
The feelings of guilt and shame were so overwhelming that I feared they might suffocate me from the inside. I'd been clinging desperately to the notion that what I'd done in Sydney had been an isolated incident, a terrible lapse in judgment that had allowed Johan to take advantage of me. But that story had gone up in smoke, and my mind was clawing frantically for a new way to understand what I'd done.
Because now this wasn't an isolated incident, which meant that I couldn't explain Johan away as a lapse in judgment. I was certain that he had caught me off-guard in Sydney, that I'd let him exploit me because I'd underestimated his capacity for dominant, sexually aggressive behavior.
But how could that explain the fact that I'd woken up in his bed this morning?
After what happened in Sydney, I knew exactly what Johan was capable of, how ruthless and manipulative he could be. When I learned he was coming to stay with us for a week, I'd made a set of rules for myself to minimize the chances he would have to assert himself. I was at home, surrounded by my family, with my husband and both of my sons asleep in their beds.
It didn't matter. None of it seemed to matter. The circumstances were different, but the results were the same.
Three nights after Johan arrived in our home, I had let him fuck me without a condom. Just like he did in Sydney.
I felt restless, dizzy, short of breath. How had this happened? How had it happened again?!
An uneasy feeling seemed to be growling at me from the pit of my stomach. I could hear it rumbling beneath the churn of guilt and shame, a primal frequency sounding deeply below the manic din like the steady beat of an ancient drum.
Because you like it.
"Shut up," I murmured to myself. "Shut up..."
Because you like how big he is.
"I don't--"
Because you like the way he uses you.
"It's not true," I whispered, shaking my head.
Because you're a big cock slut.
"That's not me!"
Suddenly, I collapsed into a heap, curling up against the wall of my bedroom, gasping for air.
But every time I tried to catch my breath, I thought back to how I'd felt in bed that morning, those blissful moments before I realized the man beside me wasn't my husband. For a few sweet, stolen seconds, I was rejuvenated, renewed, younger than I'd felt in years, more alive than I could even remember.
As much as it pained me to admit it, Johan was the one who had made me feel that way, not Steve. And if I was being honest, I wasn't sure Steve had ever made me feel like that. I wasn't sure he ever would, or if he even could.
I reached for my phone and pulled up the text chain with my older sister, Nina.
"Are you free?" I wrote. "I need to talk"
A few seconds later, my phone started buzzing.
"Hello?" I said, picking up.
