BW C67

Chapter 67

What could he possibly do to break free from Taemuk’s grasp, from the cage of those hands? How could he keep from turning his back toward him? How could he…

His temples throbbed hot as he racked his mind desperately. Just then Taemuk tapped a clean finger against his forehead, the same hand holding the ointment.

“Don’t scheme. Even if a monster appeared right this instant, I’d still apply the ointment to your backhole.”

At that, Hoeun lost all will to resist. Even if a monster came, he said, he would not abandon the task. With such resolve, Hoeun knew he could never win.

His lips froze, fumbling helplessly, until he dropped his gaze, looking as though the world itself were collapsing.

“…I’ll undress.”

Tonight too, he was defeated. Hoeun could already envision himself losing tomorrow morning as well.

As he stepped back, preparing to lower his trousers himself, Taemuk’s grip did not loosen. Confused, Hoeun glanced up. But Taemuk was smiling. On that handsome face, a smile looked good enough—but still Hoeun felt uneasy.

And rightly so.

“I could always undress you myself.”

Another jest, laced with mockery. Hoeun drew in a sharp, ragged breath. Taemuk was infuriating. Infuriating enough that rage twisted into sorrow. Lips pressed tight, his eyes filled with tears.

With an air of reluctant mercy, Taemuk finally withdrew his hand.

“Fine, fine. I won’t look. Go on, undress.”

Hoeun darted from his reach at once. He went to the corner of the tent, turning his back, hesitantly lowering his trousers inch by inch. True to his word, Taemuk kept turned away, even lightly tossing and catching the jar of ointment as if to pass the time.

Hoeun’s trembling fingers fumbled with the inner ties. And then the thin cloth slipped down at once. At that instant, the night’s chill seized his bare skin like claws. Gooseflesh rippled over him. Quickly, he pulled his jacket down, covering his rear. He knew well Taemuk would lift it anyway, but still, the instinct to hide flared.

He could not understand himself. Everything had already been seen, more than once—so why still this shame, this disgrace? When would he be able to bare himself before Taemuk without tremors? Would that day truly ever come?

He let out a soundless sigh.

“If you’ve undressed, then lie down.”

Still facing away, Taemuk’s voice commanded. Without resistance, Hoeun went to the bedding and lay forward. His legs remained on the ground while his torso stretched onto the mat. His body formed the shape of the letter “ㄱ.” The jacket rode upward, slipping off, and his buttocks were revealed.

Hoeun buried his face into the blanket and muttered, muffled, voice coarse,

“I-I’m lying down.”

He heard Taemuk turn, heard the footsteps follow, heard the soft shift of the great robe brushing and rustling like paper. The sound tickled his ears, teasing his nerves until he rubbed his shoulder against his ear to fend it off.

And then—Taemuk’s presence stopped just behind him. Hoeun gasped, breath catching, the moment a large palm gripped one buttock.

His body jolted. The great hand, the blunt fingers, the searing warmth. Before he even adjusted to the sensation, the flesh was pushed aside, exposing the hidden cleft between.

“…”

Hoeun bit down hard on his lower lip. He braced against the sound that would escape.

Taemuk pulled the cheek wider aside. Then his hand touched precisely where it must—without error.

“Ahh…”

Even though Hoeun had prepared, a thin moan poured forth, beyond his power to stop. It was not pleasure, nor hatred, but something foreign, unfamiliar.

His fingers, carrying the ointment, stroked slowly over the wrinkled folds of his back entrance—as though brushing a flower petal.

“Unnh…”

Hoeun moaned again, eyes squeezing shut. Thankfully, the pain was no longer sharp. Two days ago, it had been like knives stabbing inside him. Now it was only a throbbing ache. So, the ointment applied night and morning had done its work.

Still… twice daily, this humiliation… he would rather it healed a hundred, a thousand times slower than suffer this. But even if he said so, Taemuk would never listen. Hoeun sighed deeply through his nose.

Taemuk’s hand kept its careful pace—smoothing out each crease, drawing at the flesh to be sure no part went untreated, spreading ointment broadly into the line of the cleft, even down to the perineum.

“Mmph…”

It wasn’t pain but something uncanny, unsettling. Hoeun’s toes curled tight, his ankles crossed. Pink heels rose and fell in rhythm.

How long did he endure this touch? At last, Taemuk withdrew his hand. The ointment, warmed by his body heat, clung in thin strings before breaking away.

Hoeun lifted his head sharply, cheeks flushed, but with relief in his face. Finally—over. But then the squelch of more ointment being stirred rang in his ears. Suddenly the whole pad of a thumb pressed into the tender folds.

“Ahh…”

He let out a frail cry, his forehead dropping into the bedding.

Why did ointment always take this long? Could the wound truly be so large? It was only the rear entrance—surely limited in number and size. Or was it not long at all, and only his own shame stretched it infinitely?

The continual touch softened him, unraveling what had been tense. That finger pressed, kneaded against it. Hoeun’s hands clenched the blanket.

More time slipped away. His thighs shifted together, then apart, ankles knotting and loosening again. Countless times. And then—suddenly the hand no longer moved.

Confused, Hoeun asked,

“Is it done?”

“…”

“General?”

“…”

“General?”

No answer. He started to glance back—when a massive hand grasped his buttock hard.

“…”

Hoeun froze. Instinct screamed—the touch was no longer that of a healer applying balm.

“N-no… don’t…”

Without thought, Hoeun lurched forward, scrambling across the bedding until he huddled in the farthest corner, hugging his knees, pale-faced, staring at Taemuk. His eyes, wide and trembling, brimmed with fear, drowning in it wave upon wave.

He had pretended all was fine, acted as if forgotten, as though it had never happened. But it wasn’t true. That touch hurled him back—to the day he first entered camp, crushed beneath Taemuk.

“…”

Seeing him, Taemuk clenched his fist. The memory of Hoeun’s flesh lingered against his fingertips—the softness, the velvet smoothness, the gentle warmth, the pliant yielding. The remembrance made his throat parch. Hunger burned through him.

And yet, this time, he chose not to lose himself to beast. Swallowing, he picked up the trousers Hoeun had cast aside and set them on the bedding.

“It’s done. Put them on.”

Then he turned his back and sat at the bed’s edge.

“…”

Hoeun drew shallow, ragged breaths, watching his form. Then, stretching long, trembling arms, he snatched up the trousers. Slowly, awkwardly, he pulled them on where he sat.

The moment the cloth wrapped his skin, relief poured in. It was only fabric, yet it felt like armor forged of steel. Only then did ease return. But soon came awareness of Taemuk’s presence.

He had applied the medicine and even returned his trousers—it was right to thank him. Yet the words caught in his mouth.

Though he had committed no wrong, his eyes kept darting, checking briefly toward Taemuk. That was when he saw—Taemuk still held the ointment jar, left uncapped, the lid set aside.

Hoeun crawled, inching across, and offered it with both hands.

“Here…”

Taemuk took it without a word. But strangely, he did not seal it. Instead he set it beside his far thigh. Then suddenly he extended his hand toward Hoeun.

“Hand.”

“Eh?”

“Your hand.”

“M-my hand?”

Startled, Hoeun blinked slowly, his long lashes fluttering with each motion.

Watching, Taemuk’s brow twitched. His lashes brushed against his jaw like a tickle. He could bear torn flesh, but not a tickle—it was unbearable.

And with that creased look on Taemuk’s face, Hoeun froze. His eyes rolled, as though compelled, toward the sword leaning at the chest. Perhaps now was the punishment.

Yes… Taemuk had said he would “be deceived,” but never that he would forgive. And now, to see him demand his hand—surely he meant to take a finger.

What could he do? His body useless as it was, and yet… if he lost a finger… Still, perhaps the smallest finger could go. Better the little finger than any other, he thought, as trembling he placed it upon the broad palm.

A chuckle. Hoeun snapped his gaze up.

“I’m not cutting it off.”

“…Truly?”

“Of course. What would I use this tiny thing for, even if I did? Eat it? It’d hardly fill a single tooth.”

With that, Taemuk took his ring finger gently, rolled it between thumb and middle finger, turning the joint softly this way and that.