Chapter 2: The Red Room

Taehyung sat on the edge of the bed, wrists bruised, thighs aching. The dim lights cast long shadows across the wooden floor, dancing around him like ghosts of the things he’d endured.

It was still night. It always seemed to be night in this place.

He stared at the wall. Blank. Cold. Silent.

The same way he felt inside.

He didn’t know how long Jungkook had been gone, but when the door opened again, Taehyung didn’t flinch. He didn’t cry or plead. He simply waited.

Jungkook entered carrying a tray—water, food, a clean towel. He placed it on the nightstand, his expression unreadable.

“You need to eat,” he said gently.

Taehyung turned his head away.

“I said, eat.”

Silence.

A shadow flickered in Jungkook’s eyes. He grabbed Taehyung’s chin, forcing him to look at him.

“Are you punishing me now?” Jungkook asked with a bitter smile. “Ignoring me after I’ve given you everything?”

Taehyung’s lips parted, dry and cracked. His voice was low. “You’ve taken everything.”

Jungkook froze.

Then, in a flash, he pushed Taehyung down onto the bed, straddling him with terrifying calm.

“You still don’t understand, do you?” he whispered. “You think this is punishment. You think I enjoy your suffering.”

He reached over to the nightstand and retrieved the familiar key.

“But I’m going to show you what true surrender means.”

The Red Room had changed since the first time Taehyung saw it.

Now he knew every inch of it. Every hook on the walls. Every glint of silver. Every rope and chain. It was a temple to domination, and Taehyung had become its unwilling devotee.

Jungkook pulled him in, leading him with the leash attached to his collar. Taehyung followed. Not because he wanted to—but because resistance was met with agony. And worse than pain… was disappointment in Jungkook’s eyes.

Taehyung didn’t know why he cared about that.

Jungkook positioned him in the center of the room, locking his wrists above his head, ankles spread and restrained to the floor. The vulnerability was instant, inescapable. He stood naked in front of Jungkook, stripped of dignity, of will, of everything.

“Tonight,” Jungkook said, circling him like a predator, “I’m not going to punish you.”

Taehyung tensed.

“I’m going to teach you how to feel.”

Jungkook opened a black drawer and pulled out something sleek and glistening—a silver wand with multiple attachments. Taehyung’s eyes widened as realization dawned.

“No,” he whispered. “Please, Jungkook, not this.”

Jungkook paused, studying him.

“This isn’t about pain anymore,” he said. “It’s about control. And I want your body to know who it belongs to.”

“No—don’t—”

But the restraints were already locked.

And Jungkook didn’t stop.

The first touch was electric.

Not pleasure.

Not exactly.

More like betrayal. Of his own body.

Taehyung clenched his jaw as the vibrator pressed against his inner thigh, slow and rhythmic. His body jerked in reaction, instinctive and unwanted. Jungkook watched every twitch, every flicker of sensation with terrifying intensity.

“You feel that?” he murmured. “That’s mine. That reaction. That body. Mine.”

Taehyung shook his head. “Stop it. Please…”

But Jungkook didn’t.

He changed the speed—slow to fast, fast to slow. Taehyung gasped as unwanted sparks shot through him, shame rising like bile in his throat.

“No…” he moaned. “No, I don’t want this.”

“But your body does,” Jungkook said softly.

Tears spilled down Taehyung’s cheeks. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means everything,” Jungkook replied. “Because even if your mind says no, your body is already mine.”

It wasn’t just the vibrator. It was Jungkook’s hands, his whispers, the way he knew exactly where to touch, exactly how to manipulate every flicker of resistance. It wasn’t pleasure. It was defeat disguised as arousal.

Taehyung hated himself for it.

His body betrayed him again and again—and Jungkook rewarded every response with a kiss, a stroke, a soft word.

“You hate me,” Jungkook whispered into his ear, “but you’ll never leave me.”

Taehyung sobbed.

Because deep down, he feared it was true.

When it ended, Taehyung collapsed into Jungkook’s arms, exhausted and broken. Jungkook cradled him like a lover, stroking his hair, pressing soft kisses to his forehead.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured. “Soon, you’ll stop fighting me altogether.”

Taehyung didn’t speak.

He couldn’t.

Jungkook carried him back to the bedroom, undressed him gently, wiped the sweat and tears from his skin. The tenderness was worse than the torment.

Because a part of Taehyung—just a sliver—began to crave it.

And that terrified him more than anything.

As Jungkook tucked him into bed and lay beside him, their bodies pressed close, Taehyung’s mind drifted into a haze.

He wasn’t free.

He wasn’t loved.

He was owned.

But in the silence of the night, held tightly in Jungkook’s arms, Taehyung began to wonder—

If he stayed long enough…