Three days had passed since the shoot with Kaito Ren.
Three days since Kenji made two girls scream into camera lenses while an entire studio watched in silent awe. Since then, his phone hadn't stopped buzzing—notifications piling like raindrops on a window, flooding in from every platform, every site, every corner of the internet where his scene had been clipped, rewatched, and shared.
He didn't care much for fame. Not in the usual sense. But he paid attention. He watched. Studied the way people reacted. Listened to what they said.
They called him a monster.
An animal.
A god.
"Kenji Arata is what the industry needed."
"The new face of domination."
"Who trained this beast?"
The word "idol" followed his name now. It clung to him, reluctant but inevitable.
Still, Kenji didn't smile at the praise. He didn't gloat. He only absorbed it like a sponge soaks water—quietly, fully, without losing shape.
---
It was nearly midnight when Yumi called.
He was on his apartment couch, shirtless, scrolling through the system's new skill tree.
[Dirty Talk Lv. 1 – Active Skill: 'Whisper Corruption']
[Unlock Cost: 1 Skill Point]
[Effect: Increases partner arousal by 30% when used in close range. Cooldown: 5 minutes.]
He grunted, swiped, and unlocked it. A brief pulse of knowledge flooded his brain—phrases, tones, pressure points to exploit while whispering filth directly into someone's ear.
Then the call connected.
"Kenji," Yumi said, her voice clipped as always. "You're invited to the Velvet Moan Awards. Three days from now. Black tie. Industry elite only."
He leaned back, letting the velvet sofa cradle his muscles. "That some kind of porn Oscars?"
"In a way. It's less formal, more... theatrical. Think performance stage, flashing lights, high heels, and very little shame."
"I'm guessing I'm not there to watch."
"Your name came up on the New Sensation Nominee List."
A pause.
"Your debut clip went viral in under twelve hours."
Kenji rubbed his jaw, feeling the slight stubble along his chin. "And Kaito?"
"He's hosting one of the live categories." Her tone shifted slightly. "The organizers are pressuring him to play nice."
Kenji chuckled. "He'll choke on that smile."
"And if you perform well at the afterparty," Yumi continued, "we'll lock in the Midnight Sponsor deal."
"Afterparty?"
"Private, by invite. Closed room. No cameras. You'll be paired with an industry veteran—one of the originals. Consider it an initiation."
"Sounds like a setup."
"It is," she said plainly. "For both of you. They'll test your control. If you dominate her, you earn her endorsement. If she breaks you, they'll chew you up before you even hit your first year."
Kenji sat forward.
His cock twitched at the challenge—not out of lust, but hunger. It wasn't about sex anymore. It was power play, and he was born for it.
"Who is she?"
"Carmilla Vayne."
The name landed like a punch.
He'd seen that name on one of the system's leaderboards.
[Top 3 Female Performers – All-Time Ratings]
Carmilla Vayne – "The Succubus of Silk" – 12 Years Active, Zero Submissions.
Rumor was, no man ever made her moan unscripted. No man had ever made her cum on camera.
"She's been retired for a year," Yumi added. "But she's returning for one performance. Just one."
Kenji's heart slowed.
And then, without hesitation, he whispered:
"Tell her I'll make her beg."
---
The night of the awards came fast.
Lunar Studios sent a tailored black-on-black suit, silk-lined with silver accents. It fit him perfectly—snug around the chest, loose around the thighs, the sort of fabric that moved with every shift of his body like water on muscle.
Yumi met him at the lobby of the venue—an art-deco palace turned erotic temple for one night. Cameras flashed in bursts outside, catching glimpses of lace, velvet, exposed thighs, and silk gowns split so high they barely hid anything at all.
Yumi, for once, didn't carry her clipboard.
She wore a long black dress that hugged her figure tightly, a slit rising up to her thigh and a neckline that made his gaze pause longer than usual. Her hair was down tonight, soft waves that fell around her collarbone, uncharacteristically loose.
"You clean up well," she said, eyes trailing up his frame.
"You don't look like a manager."
"I'm not your manager tonight. I'm your handler."
"And what does a handler do?"
She looked at him flatly. "Makes sure the beast doesn't bite the wrong throat."
Kenji's grin was slow. "What if it wants to bite you?"
She stepped forward, barely a whisper from his lips.
"Then the beast better know how to earn that privilege."
Their eyes lingered for a breath too long. Then she stepped back, and the moment dissolved into noise and color and flashes of light.
---
The awards were a fever dream.
Red carpets drenched in purple light. Performers strutting half-naked through gold-laced corridors. Erotic displays in every corner—dancers hanging upside down from silk ropes, a couple already moaning in a glass box while a crowd applauded politely.
Kenji stayed composed.
He shook hands with producers who smiled too much. Smirked at actors who offered veiled compliments through clenched teeth. Women approached him in flocks—some bold, some curious, others cautious.
But one woman didn't approach him.
She stood at the far end of the ballroom, near the bar, her presence magnetic. Tall, crimson hair cascading over her bare shoulders, a slit dress the color of blood hugging her body like a second skin.
Carmilla Vayne.
Her eyes met his.
Dark. Amused. Testing.
Kenji held her gaze. Didn't blink.
She smiled.
A slow, cruel curve of lips, like a queen watching a gladiator and wondering if she'd feast on him or fuck him to death.
Then she turned away.
---
Later that night, Yumi led Kenji to the private lounge.
No cameras. No press. Just soundproof velvet walls, dim golden lights, and the low hum of moaning behind distant curtains. The real show didn't happen on the main stage—it happened here.
Carmilla waited on the velvet couch, legs crossed, drink in hand.
"You're late," she said, sipping her wine.
Kenji closed the door behind him.
"I'm the main event. I arrive last."
Her eyes narrowed with interest.
"You talk big for a boy with only two scenes."
He walked toward her, removing his suit jacket slowly, letting the silence fill the air.
"Tell me," he said, voice low and unhurried. "Do they bend because you want them to… or because they don't know how to break you?"
Carmilla rose, slow and graceful. Her heels clicked once.
"They bend because I make them want to."
Then she stepped close. Her hand rested on his chest.
"Let's see if you can do better than want."
Kenji's lips brushed her ear.
"I don't do want," he whispered. "I do need."
Her breath hitched, just slightly.
Then they kissed—and it wasn't sweet. It was fire and tongue, teeth grazing lips, hands sliding under fabric. It wasn't love. It was a war declaration.
And Kenji knew one thing as she pushed him to the couch, straddling him with the grace of a seasoned seductress—
He wouldn't just survive this night.
He'd make her kneel.