Nikki Kim: A Secret Between Sisters

Author's note: This is fourth story in the series "The Corrupting of Nikki Kim." I recommend reading the three 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. I read all comments and emails. Happy reading.

...

Hours later, as the afternoon sun began to descend across the California sky, I staggered out of the in-law unit in my backyard, slowly making my way back up to the main house.

When I'd made my fateful walk down to the in-law unit earlier that day, I'd been conscious of the fact that the neighbors might see me, clothed from head-to-toe in the MILF slut regalia that Johan had chosen for me. At the time, I'd felt a flutter of anxiety, a tickle of shame at the thought of being seen. What would they think if they saw me--a 34-year-old Asian woman, a wife and mother to two young boys--dressed to fulfill the fantasies of a depraved, 19-year-old white boy?

If they saw me wearing what he had bought for me--silver hoop earrings and red lipstick, black suede pumps with a silky black cocktail dress, a black leather collar with a small metal ring--would they know what I was doing? Would they realize what I had become?

But now, as I made the reverse journey, carrying those same suede pumps as I shambled barefoot towards my house, these questions seemed laughably naive. Because if any of the neighbors saw me now, the truth would be self-evident.

It was written in my disheveled hair, the lipstick and eyeliner smudged across my pretty Korean face. It was smeared across my wrinkled black dress, chalky splotches of white and gray staining the silky fabric. It was etched along my slender neck, where the leather collar had pressed against my soft, tan flesh, imprinting a blush-colored redness that revealed the extent of my submission. It was obvious from my faltering, spunk-drunk gait, my aching legs barely able to keep my depleted body upright.

Anyone could tell that I'd been fucked, hard and deep and more than once. Anyone could see that I'd been turned out, opened up, and split in two by some insatiable force. Anyone could guess that I'd taken hours of punishment, that my supple Asian body had been used and abused with such cruel and reckless hedonism that it bordered on blasphemy.

And no one who saw me--no stranger, no neighbor, no man or woman--would believe that this was my husband's handiwork. Because that just isn't the way a husband has sex with his wife.

It's the way a white college stud fucks a stacked Asian MILF when she finally gives in to him.

In truth, I hadn't felt like this since the last time I gave birth. My body was completely spent and totally exhausted, but I felt a sense of tranquility, like the glassy calm that settles over the surface of the ocean after a typhoon has passed.

Johan had stretched me out in every conceivable way. Physically, of course, he had plumbed depths that I didn't know existed, stimulating nerve-endings that had never been fired. But he had also stretched me emotionally, forcing me to feel things that were totally foreign, coercing me into reconsidering what I actually wanted. And he had stretched me morally, distending my Christian values and contorting my conservative upbringing, twisting my sacred marital vows into a knotted tangle of ethical dilemmas. Should I be honest my husband? Was it kinder to lie? What about my children? What about myself?

As I crossed the threshold back into my home, I lost my balance, stumbling against the couch to catch myself. I hadn't tripped over anything, but I was gripped by sudden sense of vertigo, as if the room were tilting around me. Then, just as quickly, I realized it wasn't the room that was tilting. It was me, listing to the left like a ship taking on water from the port side, pulled down by an unseen weight anchored to my left hand.

It was my wedding ring. The same one that Johan had bullied me into removing as the final prelude to my submission. The same one he had so ruthlessly described as "a lie."

I'd tried to be subtle as I left the in-law unit, scooping the ring up gingerly from the table where I'd left it, slipping it back on with my back turned to him. But Johan had seen right through me.

"You know, I wanted to tell your husband about us so badly," he chuckled scornfully. "But now, I think it actually turns me on more to watch the way you keep lying to him."

"You can't tell him," I murmured, my voice raspy, my throat still raw from being face-fucked. "Not ever."

"I fucked you in his bed yesterday," Johan crowed exultantly, still barely able to believe his good fortune. "God, that was so fucking hot, Nikki..."

"I need to go shower," I muttered. "Before I pick up the boys..."

"You do that," he grinned, hopping out of bed. "I'm actually going to head out, too. A friend of mine from Uni has a camper van, and we're going to drive out to Joshua Tree tonight."

I opened the door and turned to leave.

"You wanna come?" he asked wryly. "I told my mate all about you. He's dying to fuck you, too."

"What?" I croaked, barely able to speak. "Johan, you can't tell anyone--you promised..."

"Relax, Nikki. I said I told him about you, but I didn't tell him who you are," he laughed, walking into the bathroom. "He wants to fuck you, but I'm not ready to share yet."

I'd left the in-law unit in a hurry after that. I didn't want to be there if Johan changed his mind.

...

Somehow, I hauled myself into the shower, where I tried desperately to scrub away the evidence of an afternoon spent entirely at Johan's mercy. I couldn't rub away the redness where the collar had pressed against my neck, so as soon as I was dry, I pulled a chunky, high-necked sweater over my head.

I took the crumpled, cum-stain cocktail dress and stuffed it back into the gift box it had come in, along with the pumps, the lingerie, and the collar. I pushed the box deep into the back of my closet, behind a stack of shoeboxes. Then, I slipped into a pair of jeans and rushed out the door.

As I climbed into the car and began to back out of the driveway, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the windshield, and I realized that I had overlooked something. I'd forgotten to take off the oversized silver hoop earrings that Johan had given me, which glinted softly in the light, a subtle yet uncharacteristic accent to the dark waves of freshly-washed hair that framed my face.

I paused in the driveway, a tendril of shame licking at the nape of my neck. I was on my way to pick up my children like the wholesome school-mom that I was trying to be. Yet I was still adorned with the rings of my conqueror, my body pierced by his metal, marked by a fantasy that I had so amply fulfilled.

I should take them off, I thought to myself. But then I glanced at the clock, which glowed disapprovingly on the dashboard, chiding me for my lateness. Danny and Riley would already be waiting. They would be wondering where their mom was, and what she was doing.

Fuck it, I thought to myself, backing out onto the street. They're just earrings. Who cares how I got them?

I put the car in drive and sped away, one man's ring on my finger, another's dangling from my ears.

...

That night, with Johan over a hundred miles away in Joshua Tree National Park, things at home were almost normal. Steve came home from work, we ate a family dinner, and enjoyed some quiet time together in front of the TV, just like the old days.

But for some reason, I now found the quiet disconcerting. It seemed so sudden, this normalcy, and I felt myself struggling to readjust. I couldn't get over how quickly my life seemed to change gears, throttling up to torrid, breakneck speeds that threatened to tear me apart, then shifting back down into what now felt like the lowest gear.

Just a few hours earlier, I'd been pinned helplessly beneath a 19-year-old white boy, moaning incoherently as he hammered into me with malicious intensity. Now, I was seated beside my husband and my two sons, idly watching some reality TV show about race car drivers.

How could this still be the same day? How could a single day in the life of one woman contain both of these scenes? It just made no sense. These had to be two parallel worlds, two separate timelines, and oscillating between them was giving me whiplash.

How long could one woman inhabit both of these worlds? How long would it be until one consumed the other?

Pull it together, I told myself. Tomorrow is Friday. Johan's flight leaves on Saturday morning. You just need to get through one more day.

I was lost in thought when I heard my husband's voice.

"What?" I murmured, turning absently to face him.

"Your earrings," Steve said. "Are those new?"

"These?" I blushed, casually fingering one of the oversized silver hoops.

"I haven't seen them before," he said. "Where did you get them?"

"Um, I got them off a store on Instagram," I said. "My sister told me about it."

"They look like something Nina would wear," Steve nodded approvingly. "I like them."

"Really?" I said. "I didn't think you would even notice."

"C'mon," he said, putting his arm around my back. "I'm more observant than you think."

"Sure, Steve," I mumbled, patting him on the thigh. "You see everything."

...

The following morning, after an Ambien-induced sleep, I woke up, made breakfast, and drove the boys to school. On the ride back, I felt the same nervous energy as the day before, when I'd come home to find the gift box that Johan had left for me.

But when I got home, there was no sign of Johan. I tip-toed anxiously through the house, half-expecting to find him waiting around every corner. But he wasn't there, and there weren't any lurid notes or mysterious boxes, either.

After finding the main house empty, I walked casually out into the backyard, telling myself that I just wanted to enjoy a breath of fresh air. But then, without even realizing it, I found myself walking over to the in-law unit. Before I could stop myself, I peered in through the glass window, only to find the place much the way I'd left it the day before. Johan's things were still strewn about the room, but he wasn't there.

Johan was still in Joshua Tree, perhaps, or god knows where else. Maybe he'd finally decided to do some sightseeing in LA before his flight home tomorrow morning.

I knew I should have felt a sense of relief. Every hour that Johan was away moved me one hour closer to being free from his clutches. His flight was in less than 24 hours now. I just had to survive this nightmare a little bit longer.

But I'm ashamed to say that the relief I felt was mottled by a twinge of disappointment. This was Johan's last day in our home, his last day in the United States. Tomorrow morning, a plane would carry him thousands of miles away, where he would return to his life as a 19-year-old university student in South Africa. And I would return to my life as a 34-year-old Asian housewife in the suburbs of LA.

That was what I wanted, wasn't it? To get my life back? To have him leave me alone for good?

Of course, I told myself. Of course that's what I want. So why do I feel like pouting?

Johan had to know that today was the last chance he would ever have with me. Once he was out of our house, I would never let myself be in the same room with him again. He was way too dangerous, and the stakes were way too high.

So if this was really his last chance to have me, then where was he? I felt a shiver of indignation ripple through me. After everything I'd given him--everything I'd let him do to me--was he really choosing to spend his final hours driving around some dusty desert?

Walking back up to the main house, I felt a shameful pang of insecurity. Maybe Johan had finally gotten his fill of me. His desire had been so relentless that it had seemed bottomless, but maybe it wasn't. Maybe he had so gorged himself on the fruits of my body that it was enough to satiate even his ravenous 19-year-old appetite.

He had fucked me five times in the last three days, including three times just the previous afternoon. Maybe he'd had enough. Maybe he was done with me.

That thought sent a wave of shame cascading over me. Not just because it suggested how disposable I might be to him in spite of everything we'd done, but also because it implied that he had already moved on. And the very fact that I was thinking this way seemed to prove that I hadn't.

Johan had been like a riptide, a strong current that had pulled me under and sucked me out, dragging me away from the shallow waters of my normal life. I thought that I'd been swimming back towards land, that if I could just get through this week, I would find myself back on familiar shores, solid ground beneath my feet.

But now, as disappointment and shame welled up inside me, I realized how naive that was. Because I was in much deeper than I'd realized, deeper than I'd been willing to admit.

I was still underwater, still in the throes of the undertow. I couldn't even see the coastline, much less swim towards it. All I could do was let the current carry me and wait until it washed me ashore.

Perhaps it would take me back to the same shallow waters, the same familiar shore. But I wasn't sure if I could hold my breath that long.

...

I tried to busy myself around the house, to pass the hours productively so that they would go by faster. I took a shower, threw in a load of laundry, and did a YouTube yoga class, all things that were perfectly at home in my day-to-day routine. Yet even as I busied myself with these innocent, mundane activities, I was conscious of the fact that I wasn't just passing time.

Because I didn't just shower. I shaved my legs.

And I didn't just do the laundry. I washed the lingerie that Johan had given me.

And as I went through my yoga practice, I found myself concentrating on my pelvic floor, muscles aching as I stretched, the tension in my hips easing gently as I moved through the poses, flexing deeper and deeper as my body gradually opened back up.

I wasn't just passing time. I was preparing myself for Johan's return, for our final hours together.

I knew this because as I held the poses, concentrating on my breath, my mind wandered back to the day before, to the teenage fantasy that I'd fulfilled for this brash white college boy.

Dressed in the clothes he'd chosen, stripped of my wedding ring, he'd led me to his bed by the collar fastened around my neck. Then he had fucked me, once and then twice and then--oh god--a third time, pushing my limits to the point where I thought he'd broken my body beyond repair.

I had begged him to go slow that third time, but although he'd obliged me, his cock was too big for that to make much of a difference. His strokes were so long that no spot inside me was safe, no muscles or nerves were beyond his reach. By now he knew the exact angles that unmoored me, the once-untouchable regions that released my inhibitions and rendered me defenseless. His cock was so long that I could feel it bending inside me, conforming to fit the velvety snugness of my cunt even as he widened my tunnel with each irrevocable stroke. I didn't understand how something could be so hard and still bend like that.

And he was still so hard, even by the third time, his tireless teenage heart still pumping an endless supply of hot, young blood into his magnificent tool. His cock was so hard that it seemed irresistible, practically inevitable, like a battering ram that left splintered timbers in its wake. How could any door withstand such force? How could any woman?

As I rolled my back then arched it upward, moving back and forth between cat-cow, I couldn't help but imagine Johan walking in on me like this. Down on all fours in my yoga pants and a sports bra, my body warm from exertion and well-stretched, essentially presenting myself to him. I could practically feel his hands on my hips as he prepared to mount me from behind.

Johan hadn't given me an STD, thank god, but he had managed to infect me all the same. He had given me some kind of brain-worm, some sort of mind-virus that was now replicating uncontrollably inside my body. Johan hadn't gotten me pregnant, but he had planted his seed inside my head, and it was growing faster than I could stop it.

By fulfilling Johan's fantasies--by letting him remake me as the Asian MILF slut of his dreams--I had given voice to my own forbidden urges. Now, they had taken on a life of their own.

The day before, from the depths of my own depraved imagination, I had conjured up an important scene from my life with Steve, only to re-script it callously for Johan's personal pleasure.

Instead of describing the night back in college where Steve had swept me off my feet, I gave Johan the starring roles, making him both the villain and the hero. Instead of talking about how Steve had charmed me with his good looks and sharp wit, I said that he had cowered like a helpless lamb as Johan put his hands all over me. Instead of a story that ends with Steve kissing me for the first time, my story ended with Steve watching in horror as Johan bent me over and fucked me in front of all our friends.

As shameful as this story was, the most lurid thing about it was the fact that I'd imagined it all on my own. Since our tryst began, Johan had coerced me into many things, but he didn't force me to tell that story, because that wasn't his fantasy. It was mine.

I really couldn't fathom what was happening inside me. Somehow, it wasn't enough to let Johan fuck me in the present, to let him sully my marriage in real life. Now, I was rewriting cherished memories so that he could fuck me in the past, to let him preempt my relationship with Steve before it even began.

That night back in college, Steve had been everything I wanted in a man, kind and handsome and funny, charismatic and cool. It was among the most significant moments in the mythology of our marriage. But now, my actual memory of that night had to coexist with this newly-implanted version, in which Steve barely has a speaking role.

In this version of the story, Steve only exists as an obstacle for Johan, but he's so easily overcome that he's barely even that. In truth, he is less of an obstacle than he is an audience, present only so that he can bear witness as Johan fucks me. Because in order for Johan to win, someone else has to lose. And in this version of the story, Steve's job is to be the loser.

I never imagined that I could be capable of such thoughts. Steve and I had been married for almost 15 years, and in all that time, I'd never experienced feelings like these about my husband. But this was the mind-virus at work, worming its way into my psyche, corrupting the memories that had defined me as a person.

Beyond a passing fancy, I had never harbored desires for other men. I'd never been dissatisfied with my husband's size, never felt any special attraction to white men. And I'd certainly never had fantasies of being with a younger man.

But now I did. Now the mind-virus was spreading inside me, rewiring my drives, making it hard to think of anything else. Making me so wet and warm that I could barely hold my yoga poses.

It was Johan's last day in LA, and whether I wanted to admit it or not, I was ready to give him whatever he wanted. But he wasn't there.

...

As the hours passed without any sign of Johan and the afternoon shadows began to length, my anticipation started to cool, and my arousal turned to annoyance. I was embarrassed by my own disappointment, the way I was waiting for him like a schoolgirl who'd been stood up at the mall.