The Only Woman in a Zombie Apocalypse Vol. 3 Chapter 74 - A Complicated Heart Loses Its Way

“…Huh?”

 

Dohun’s fingers curled around her wrist like warm steel and tugged her down the stairwell to B2.

 

The air down here was cooler, thick with the scent of leather, latex, and the faint musk of nights already spent in these costumes.

 

He stopped in front of the rack, rolled his shoulders once, then dragged three hangers free with a predator’s grin.

 

‘Crotchless All-in-One Bunny Girl (black patent, silver trim)’

 

‘Obi-tied Kimono (crimson silk, one pull and it’s on the floor)’

 

‘Reversible Dress (storm-cloud grey, front = elegant, back = four thin straps and a whole lot of sin)’

 

He held them up like trophies.

 

“Choose your poison, noona.”

 

The kimono looked almost modest—until you noticed the single ribbon holding everything together.

 

The bunny girl was nothing but strategic cutouts: nipples barely covered, pussy framed like a gift.

 

The reversible dress clung to every breath; from the front it was a high-necked tease, from the back it was four satin strings biting into creamy skin, leaving her spine, ass, and the dimples above completely bare.

 

“Try them. I need to see which one makes me want to rip it off with my teeth.”

 

Dayoung’s pulse thumped between her legs. She snatched the reversible dress and disappeared behind the velvet curtain.

 

Fabric whispered over skin. 

 

The dress slid down like liquid mercury, molding to her waist, her hips, the swell of her breasts.

 

A gray microfiber thong—barely a suggestion—nestled against her already-slick folds.

 

Four satin straps crossed her back, cool against the fever of her skin, tied in a bow that begged to be undone. She stepped out.

 

Dohun’s eyes went black.

 

“Grey’s too cold for you. Turn.”

 

She pivoted slowly. The hem fluttered high enough to flash the lower curve of her ass with every step.

 

The strings pulled tighter, digging delicate lines into her flesh.

 

“Again. Slower. Show me what I’m unwrapping tonight.”

 

This time she rolled her hips, let the dress ride higher, let him see the damp patch blooming at the front of the thong.

 

Dohun’s throat clicked when he swallowed.

 

He closed the distance in two strides. His palms—calloused, greedy—cupped her ass, spread her cheeks just enough for cool air to kiss the wet strip of fabric between them.

 

“This one’s fucking lethal,” he growled against her ear, teeth grazing the lobe. 

 

“You look like you’re already tied up for me. Like all, I have to do is tug one string, and you’ll fall open.”

 

His thumbs traced the edge where satin met skin, sending sparks straight to her clit.

 

“And yet you’re still groping me,” she whispered, voice trembling with want.

 

“Tell me to stop.”

 

She didn’t.

 

He spun her, pushed her down onto the low velvet bed, knees sinking into the mattress. Sat her on the edge, spread his own thighs to cage her in.

 

“Noona.”

 

His voice was gravel and honey.

 

“You’re dripping through the thong. I can see it.”

 

Heat flooded her face, her chest, her cunt.

 

“Want me to clean you up with my tongue?”

 

Her breath hitched. They still had hours until the party.

 

But her pussy was already clenching around nothing, slick running in slow rivulets down her inner thighs. She answered by sliding one strap off her shoulder, letting the dress gape open over one breast, nipple stiff and begging.

 

Dohun’s grin was pure sin.

 

“On your knees, baby. Forehead down, ass high. Spread those pretty legs so I can see how wet my noona is for me.”

 

Dinner ended in absolute silence.

 

Fourteen pairs of eyes tracked every bite she took, every time she licked sauce off her thumb, every time her throat bobbed when she swallowed.

 

The air in the cafeteria was so thick you could taste the testosterone—like ozone before lightning.

Ian was the first to break.

 

He pushed his chair back with a slow, deliberate scrape that echoed like a gunshot.

 

“Noona.”

 

His voice dropped two octaves, the leader voice that made everyone’s spine snap straight.

 

“Party starts now.”

 

Fourteen chairs moved at once.

 

They didn’t swarm her like animals. They moved like a military unit that had rehearsed this a thousand times in their heads.

 

Theo—smallest, fastest—slipped behind her chair and slid the crimson kimono tie from her fingers.

 

Hayun and Seojun flanked her, each taking one of her wrists, lifting her to stand so gently it felt like worship.

 

Dohun stepped forward, cupped her jaw, and kissed her slow and filthy right in front of everyone, letting them watch her knees buckle.

 

When he pulled back, her lipstick was smeared across his mouth like war paint.

 

“Rules tonight,” 

 

Ian growled, eyes never leaving her face.

 

“No one comes until noona does. No one marks above the collar unless she begs.

Safe word is still ‘red.’ Everyone got it?”

 

A chorus of low, hungry “yes, hyung” rumbled through the room.

 

They led her—not carried, led—down the hallway like a queen to her coronation.

 

Every step, someone’s fingertips brushed her:

 

Jihu tracing the silk over her spine, Minho ghosting knuckles along the back of her thigh, Sion letting his breath fan the shell of her ear.

 

The second the playroom door clicked shut, the energy detonated.

 

Theo dropped to his knees first, pressing reverent kisses to the inside of her ankle, working his way up.

 

Hanyeol and Woomin untied the kimono in perfect sync—one tug and the silk sighed to the floor, leaving her in nothing but the tiny gray thong from earlier.

 

Fourteen boys formed a loose circle around her, shirts already gone, belts clinking open.

 

Fourteen cocks straining against denim and sweatpants, every single one for her.

 

Ian stepped into the center, cupped her face with both massive hands.

 

“Look at them, noona.”

 

His thumbs stroked her cheekbones.

 

“Every single one of us would burn the world down if you asked. Tonight we burn for you.”

 

Then he kissed her—slow, deep, claiming—while fourteen pairs of hands began their assault.

 

Jihu and Kang Jiseok latched onto her nipples at the exact same second, sucking hard enough to make her cry out into Ian’s mouth.

 

Dohun dropped behind her, spread her ass cheeks, and dragged his tongue from clit to asshole in one long, possessive stripe.

 

Minshik and Jangwoo each claimed a thigh, teeth sinking in just hard enough to leave crescents she’d wear for days.

 

Someone’s fingers—Yeowoon’s?—slipped under the soaked thong and speared into her, curling, pumping, while another set—Song Jiwoo—circled her clit in tight, ruthless circles.

 

She came the first time standing up, legs shaking so hard four sets of arms caught her before she hit the floor.

 

They didn’t stop.

 

Theo and Seojun laid her on the velvet bench like an offering. Hayun slid beneath her, guiding her down until she was straddling his face, his tongue plunging deep.

 

Joohan knelt in front of her, feeding her his cock inch by inch while Sion and Haneul held her hair back like the gentlest crown.

 

Every time she got close again, Ian’s voice cut through the haze, 

 

“Hold it. Not yet. We come together or not at all.”

 

She lost count after the fourth orgasm. She only knew that when Ian finally spread her thighs wide, lined up, and sank into her in one slow, relentless thrust, fourteen voices groaned in perfect unison.

 

They moved like a single organism—someone’s mouth on her clit, someone’s fingers in her ass, someone’s cock down her throat, hands everywhere, praise everywhere.

 

“Fuck, noona, you’re taking us so well—”

 

“Look how pretty you cry when you’re full—”

 

“We’ve got you, let go—”

 

When she finally shattered the last time, it was with Ian buried to the hilt, Dohun’s tongue on her clit, and fourteen boys chanting her name like a prayer.

 

They came seconds after her—ropes of heat painting her stomach, her breasts, her back, her thighs—marking her inside and out.

 

Then the aftercare hit like a tidal wave.

 

Fourteen bodies curled around her on the massive mattress. Warm washcloths, gentle kisses, water bottles pressed to her lips.

 

Someone braided her sweaty hair while someone else massaged her trembling legs.

 

Ian’s deep voice, soft now, against her temple:

 

“Still with us, noona?”

 

She managed a wrecked, blissful laugh.

 

“Never been more alive.”

 

And fourteen hearts answered in perfect sync:

 

“Good. Because we’re just getting started.”

 

Among the fourteen boys staring at Dayoung with hearts pounding in their throats, Theo’s eyes shone the brightest—like a kid who’d just been told Christmas came early.

 

Back when he first arrived, someone had whispered about “the parties.”

 

Theo thought they were pulling his leg.

 

But tonight’s dinner vibe screamed it loud and clear, ‘Welcome to Wonderland, everyone—you and every filthy fantasy you’ve ever had.’

 

Dohun finished explaining the rules, voice lazy and lethal.

 

“Last one to the bar has the highest chance of taking noona to the sex room.”

 

Theo’s heart slammed against his ribs so hard he almost heard it crack.

 

Ever since he got here, Dayoung had been his celebrity—untouchable, dazzling, the girl he’d die protecting. He hung on her every word, shielded her from Dohun’s teasing, worshipped her from two steps behind.

 

Yet now, with the party countdown ticking, he realized the heat in his gaze wasn’t just admiration anymore.

 

Jihu and Joohan caught him grinning like an idiot and twirled their fingers beside their temples—the universal sign for ‘this kid’s fucking insane,’ same as they’d done the day they dragged him to the mall.

 

Dinner ended.

 

Dohun clapped once, sharp as a starter pistol.

 

“As promised—party night. Everyone at the bar by 9 p.m. No pressure—if you’re sick or wanna sit this one out, door’s right there.”

 

‘Yeah, right.’

 

Every single party so far had 100% attendance—scouting rotations excluded.

 

Who the hell would miss the hottest, wettest, most mind-blowing night of their lives?

 

Especially when the star was pretty, cute, sexy, perfect Kim Dayoung.

 

Fourteen boys rolled their eyes at Dohun’s fake generosity and started clearing tables like soldiers prepping for war.

 

They showered like it was a sacred ritual—every inch scrubbed raw, hair washed twice, cologne layered just enough to make her mouth water.

 

Dayoung bumped into a few of them at the bathhouse exit, towels low on hips, water still dripping down carved abs. She almost laughed out loud.

 

Men, women—same brain, different plumbing.

 

Guys just advertise their horniness with a nine-inch neon sign.

 

Girls? We hide the flood between our thighs and call it “a little excited.”

 

Back in her room, she killed the last hour daydreaming about the crimson kimono waiting on the bed.

 

One scene from an old movie kept replaying:

 

A naked woman lying on a table, sushi arranged over every curve, a dozen suited men staring like wolves while she wasn’t allowed to move a muscle.

 

Nyotaimori. These days couples do it for anniversaries—whipped cream, melted chocolate, strawberries dipped in sin.

 

Actual food on skin still felt a bit much, but whipped cream? Chocolate?

 

One day, she swore to herself, she was absolutely trying that. Let fourteen tongues lick her clean while she writhed on the table like dessert.

 

Back in her soldier days, every ounce of brainpower went to drills and missions; there was zero room for filthy fantasies.

 

Even in the other world she’d watched porn, sure, but never once pictured anything this depraved.

 

Was it the body?

 

These days her thoughts turned sinful the second her eyes opened. 

 

But what was she supposed to do—fight it?

 

The cravings kept coming, louder, wetter, impossible to ignore. She’d told herself she was bold because “it’s just a novel.”

 

Turned out learning this was reality didn’t slow her down one bit.

 

Maybe this place still didn’t feel real. Or maybe she just didn’t care anymore.

 

Party time.

 

In the sex-room changing area she stripped and slid into the costume, mind already three steps ahead into the filth.

 

The mirror showed a wet dream in cotton-candy pink:

 

A micro-kimono, skin-tight, barely long enough to cover her ass. Her heavy breasts spilled over the neckline, nipples playing peek-a-boo with every breath.

 

The hem kissed the bottom curve of her cheeks, leaving the lower half of her pale, plump ass completely exposed.

 

Heat throbbed between her legs just looking at herself. She twisted her hair into a high, messy bun, stabbed a jade hairpin through it, and turned her head side to side.

 

The long, fragile column of her throat looked obscene against the silk.

 

‘Perfect.’

 

She was shocked how seriously she took these costumes now, but once you’ve tasted that kind of pleasure, you don’t go back.

 

Wall clock: 9:00 sharp.

 

Dohun’s rule, “The star is always late.”

 

So she waited another three minutes, heart hammering, then pushed the door open and sauntered toward the bar.

 

The second she crossed the threshold, fourteen male voices exploded into chaos, then cut to dead silence. Fourteen sets of eyes locked on her like lasers.

 

“Oh fuck, a kimono?!”

 

“Noona, you’re unreal—”

 

“Dayoung, you’re gonna kill us.”

 

Fourteen throats bobbed in unison.

 

The tight silk hugged every dangerous curve; her tits looked one heartbeat away from popping free, the deep valley between them a hypnotic promise.

 

Her legs—slimmer after days of fever—looked endless, milky, begging to be wrapped around someone’s waist.

 

The delicate line of her collarbones and the fragile hollow of her throat screamed ‘bite me’. She hadn’t even spoken yet and half the room was already hard.

 

Four parties in, and they still lost their minds the moment she walked in.

Fourteen predators reduced to starving wolves at the sight of one tiny girl in pink silk.

 

Dayoung smiled, slow and filthy, and let the door click shut behind her.

 

Game on!!