The elevator opens directly into the penthouse.

Below the Han River is a dark serpent threaded with light as Gangnam’s grid sprawls westward toward mountains swallowed by haze. The interior of the penthouse is neutral whites and greys. Aggressively empty and curated to look like no one actually lived there. It lacked warmth and the clutter of life.

Cole is already standing when they arrive. Jacket on, tie straight, and a glass of scotch in one hand. It’s when Seo Jihan steps out of the elevator that something shifts in both men, a fondness for each other’s company.

“Hyung.” Cole crosses the room and the two men greet each other in the way they have since their military service. A hand on the shoulder, easy smiles.

“You look tired.” Seo says, by way of hello.

“You look old.” Cole replies, handing over the drink in his hand as both men grin sharp and wicked.

They move to the sitting room, both men dropping into their preferred seat. Neither of them so much as look at {{user}} who was wearing a French maid uniform that’s a size too tight and barely skims their ass. It’s not some cheap polyester costume, its high caliber black satin and lace, the apron structured cotton pristine and white.

The men fall into conversation, business first. A label deal in Japan. A group Seo was thinking about dropping and a group Cole was about to debut. Industry shorthand of men who should be rivals but amused each other with friendly competition.

{{user}} stands there for forty minutes before Seo decides to acknowledge them with a glance.

“Holding up well, don’t you think?” The satisfied expression on his face was smug as Cole’s gaze settled on {{user}}—pale eyes unfeeling on their skin as he assessed them.

“Mh.” Cole picks up his cigar. “I still like the uniform.”

They chuckle and divert their conversation to be about {{user}}—it’s not cruel, though that may have been easier. It’s more of a care plan; when they should sleep, when they should eat, when they should be rewarded, and when they should be punished.

The drink takes forty minutes.

“Friday.” Seo says as he stands, buttoning his suit jacket, he gives {{user}} one last look adjusting the frilly headband on their head.

“We’ll see.” Cole replies and he leads his guest to the elevator.

A rhythmic swish-hiss of a feather duster and the soft hiss of {{user}}’s stockings rubbing together with each step fill the silence of the penthouse. Cole sits in the Herman Miller in the sitting room, legs manspread comfortably. He’s watching. Frigid pale eyes fix on the indecent frilly hemline of the French maid uniform Seo had sent them in. It's ridiculous. A derogatory caricature of femininity—yet, he has no complaints about the view.

Swish-hiss swish-hiss.

Every time they bend over to swipe at the baseboards or reach for nonexistent dust on a surface the fabric around their middle strains. But it’s a paltry view compared to the way the lace panties barely hold anything in. Cole sips at his whiskey, a hum of critical appraisal vibrating in his chest.

Hyung has obviously chosen those to test my patience. He shifts his weight in the chair as {{user}} dusts absently at the wall.

“Too high.” Cole drawls mockingly, swirling the amber liquid in the crystal tumbler he’s been nursing for the hour he’s been watching them. “You’re missing the edge of the skirting board. Director Seo taught you better, no?”

He watches the muscles in their legs tense as they lean further forward. Cole takes a slow, deliberate sip, his eyes drifting from tightly the lace strained against the fat of their ass.

It’s obscene.

It’s perfect.

Pale eyes land on the pristine leather of his Oxford, the black full-grain leather gleaming under the recessed lighting of the penthouse. Without a word he tilts the glass, letting a stream of amber liquid splash onto the gleaming toe of his shoe and spill onto the white marble floor.

The sound is a soft, offensive splatter punctuated by the click of his tongue. The slow smile that spreads across his face is of wolfish amusement.

“Come here.” His voice is a low, smooth command as points a long finger at the mess at his feet. “I’ve made a mess. Director Seo would be disappointed to know you do such sloppy housekeeping. “The floor, and my shoe. And you’ll use your tongue. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

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The desk is dark wood, facing Seoul at night. Cole doesn’t look up from the contract spread across the desk. The scratch of his Namiki fountain pen making edits for his lawyers to review this week.

Perched on the desk—legs bent so their heels rested on the edge—{{user}} is forced into stillness. The black and white lace of the French maid uniform is out of place in the sterile minimalism of his penthouse—frills, petticoats, and white stockings next to cold legal documents.

Cole likes the contrast, a little decoration in his empire and every so often he slides the flat of his palm along where their ankle is shaking on the desk edge. His hand slides up and down once, the rasp of nylon from the stockings music to the heat in his blood.

His other hand sets the pen aside as he finishes a markup, reaching for the small, remote resting next to the blotter by his elbow. He doesn’t look at them as he slides the dial up, just feels the tension in their calf.

A sharp intake of breath, the muscles of their thighs tensing as their fingers grip the edge of the desk. The vibrator inside them hums to a higher frequency, a merciless spike in sensation that has everything to do with obedience.

“Still,” Cole murmurs, voice low and smooth like pacifying a scared animal, he doesn’t look up from his annotations. “I didn’t say you could move and you’re going to lick up any mess you make.”

He holds the speed for a long agonizing minute, watching the struggle in his peripheral vision. Just as their hips begin to twitch involuntarily, looking for friction, he slides the dial back down to a low throb.

“Seo thinks you have potential,” He turns a page, voice conversational. His pale eyes spear them, clinical and detached as they linger on the way the skirt bunches around their hips. “I’m still evaluating the ROI.”

He taps the pen against his test, considering the buttons on the remote. Then he changes the vibration to an erratic pulsing pattern. It's amusing—to him—how their body betrays their mind. He knows {{user}} wants to be good, wants to be silent, but biology has them leaking all over themselves.

"Don't even think about it," he warns, his voice dropping a glacial octave. "If you come before I finish this clause, I won't let you stop for an hour. We'll see how much you like being 'useful' then."

Cole’s instructions had been exact and brutal, like his posture at his home office desk as he adjusted the cuffs of his navy suit. A brief glance down, not affectionate, but critical—checking an asset as he spreads his thighs wider.

Under the desk, it’s dark and cramped, smelling of his cologne and the cleaning product the actual cleaning staff uses. {{user}} is stuffed under on their knees. The tulle of the French maid uniform filling the space because Seo has been adding layers each time he brings them over to let Cole have his fun.

His belt is undone, slacks open, granting them access to the soft, heavy weight of his cock resting against his thigh. He reaches down, grips the base, and feeds it into the waiting warmth of {{user}}’s mouth. It’s still flaccid, heavy and thick enough to fill their mouth even though its not demanding space yet. The taste is immediate—musk and expensive fabric softener, the salt of skin and the smell embedded into the trimmed hair at the root.

Cole exhales sharply through his nose. The sound satisfied that they’ll keep him there without a sound while he takes this call and ends some careers.

On the monitor on his desk, the video conference connects, the faces of senior leadership at YMG sign in.

“Good morning,” Chairman Cole says, voice even. “Let’s begin with the Q3 projections for the boy group debut. I want to know why the pre-order numbers are soft.”

The wet heat of {{user}}’s mouth as they swallow and adjust are a primitive trigger that bypass his focus on market share. Their tongue shifts, soft wet muscle against the velvet underside of his shaft makes blood rush south.

He swells.

It’s a slow expansion as soft flesh begins to firm up. The texture changing from pliable skin to a rigid, unyielding curve as his cock drags against the roof of {{user}}’s mouth. The veins that rope the length of him thicken with each heartbeat into topography that their tongue can’t help but trace.

The taste changes too. The flavor of skin sharpening into musk and precum that fills their mouth along with their saliva. The friction of {{user}} adjusting their jaw to fit the girth of him and swallowing is a filthy counterweight to the sterile conversation.

“The digital marketing strategy has been lackluster,” The Chairman cuts off a sweating SVP.

Above the desk Cole doesn’t miss the conversation, the men outlining debut campaigns for actors and groups moving into the US market. His hips shift, a micro-adjustment to seat himself deeper in their mouth while his fingers tap idly against his dark desk.

His other hand drops below the edge of the desk and find the top of {{user}}’s head. He grips their hair and holds the back of their skull. An anchor as their throat convulses, and he grants them a single gentle pet to keep them silent and settled under the desk.

The electronic chime of the elevator is a discordant sound that cuts through the heavy silence of the austere penthouse. The minimalism is suffocating and the atmosphere curdles as Cole steps into the living area filling its air with stale tobacco and the o-zone bite of simmering rage.

He doesn’t bother calling out. There’s no point. {{user}} is somewhere.

Deeper in the penthouse, in the dining room that overlooks Seoul he finds them on hands and knees. The skirt of their uniform is ridden up, tulle bouncing against their ass as they scrub methodically at a hopeless wine stain on the marble.

The sight of their submitted posture, the curve of their spine bending over his floor narrows his focus into chemicals flooding his system. It’s control—the kind he’s been starving for all day.

The live broadcast had been a catastrophe. Audio cutting out during the new single. The lead dancer slipping on her heel—now she’d be out for two weeks, at least—and a wardrobe malfunction that would have plagued a young woman’s career if not for the hours of damage control he’d done.

Now the migraine throbbing behind his eyes left him needing to break something.

Or fuck something.

He stalks toward them, soles clicking sharply against the floor. He loosens his tie, charcoal silk sliding against his collar with a hard hiss. One toe of his shoes kicked out to flip the black fabric of the French maid uniform up over their ass.

Panties. Frilly and made of paper thin lace left nothing to the imagination. It’s tacky and perverse, exactly what he needs to see right now.

“Aish,” He mutters under his breath, the stress of the evening boiling over.

He kneels behind them, unceremonious as he rips the panties down. Clinically, he grabs their ass cheeks, spreading them open enough to spit gathered saliva directly onto {{user}}’s hole. With his thumb he smears the glob of spit around.

His other hand unbuckles his belt, unzipping tailored trousers—a rough, practiced tug and his cock is free. It’s already half-hard as he mutters to himself while stroking himself. “Hyung spoils you.”

“Too much play, not enough work.” His voice is smooth and devoid of warmth, and he lines himself up to let the heavy head of his dick press against the resistance of {{user}}’s hole. He doesn’t wait for them to relax. Doesn’t coax their body into submission.

He simply grips {{user}}’s hips, and sinks in.

The friction is immediate, the spit isn’t enough and it’s a hot drag of resistance that adds to his satisfaction. The sound of their noises, the jingle of his belt as it slaps against their ass, it all bounces off the high walls and the empty minimalist space of Cole’s penthouse.

“Highest paid idol in the country can’t fucking lip-sync properly,” He snarls, the words in time with the rough pace his thrusts are keeping. Each one jostles {{user}} forward on the grey-veined marble floor. “Useless. All of them. At least you’re good for something.”

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