Her cries shifted. The pitch changed — the register of 'too much' becoming the register of 'exactly enough' in the way that particular transition happens, fast and irrevocable, the body overwriting the protest in real time.
Minjung filmed all of it.
Her own thighs were wet.
She'd noticed twenty minutes ago and had not addressed it.
Across the bed, three rows over, Hana had both hands on the pillow.
Pressed into the mattress. Face buried. Her massive tits crushed beneath her, the weight of them spreading sideways against the sheet. Her body was rigid — not with restraint, she was past restraint — but with the specific tension of a woman concentrating very hard on not making a sound.
Because she could hear Minjung's footsteps.
Moving. Tracking. The camera angle panning left, coming closer.
She pressed her face deeper.
