Critical Point (R19)

Episode 1

The first time I met Baek Seung-min was when I was twenty-three, on the first day of school after being discharged from the military.

Spring and fall had long since vanished, leaving only the brutal extremes of summer and winter, but the semester start date remained unchanged. As I climbed the steep slope in front of the main gate—a Storm Hill present at every school—a bitterly cold wind sliced across my cheeks.

Dragging myself out of bed for school always felt like a chore. Mornings were a curse of modern life I couldn’t seem to escape. The only solace was that I no longer had to endure the military’s regimented wake-ups or my parents’ nagging.

The school, unchanged despite my two-year absence, welcomed me back. Life for students returning from the military was predictable: some leaned into their age, lording it over the younger students, while others—like me—drifted aimlessly, blending into the background.

The students at orientation were no different than before. They were either neurotic overachievers obsessed with grades and their futures, aimless drifters like me, or clueless freshmen. I passed a cluster of new students, each glued to their phones, and made my way to the back of the classroom. Dropping my empty bag onto the seat beside me, I basked in the heater’s warm breeze and felt my eyelids grow heavy.

“Holy shit! Who is this guy?”

Whack!

“Ah!”

A heavy hand landed on my back, slamming my forehead onto the desk.

“Hey, you little shit! Cha Woo-kyung! I thought you were dead!”

The shock jarred me awake, my surroundings suddenly buzzing with noise.

“Damn it, that hurt!”

“When did you get discharged? Back to school already?”

“A month ago. And what the hell is wrong with you?”

“What did I do? You’re the one making a fuss, banging your head on the desk.”

This idiot, acting innocent despite his assault, was Park Hyun-woong, a notorious busybody in our department. Every major seems to have one—a nosy guy who meddles in everyone’s business as though it’s his own. I hated dealing with people like him.

“So, why were you passed out so early in the morning?”

“I’m tired. It’s been a while though.”

“That’s right, you bastard. You just disappeared into the army without a word. Didn’t even call me on leave. What kind of friend does that?”

“Who spends their military leave meeting old classmates?”

“Everyone else, you punk! No wonder we thought you were dead. And you even changed your number? Hand over your phone.”

Reluctantly, I passed him my phone, if only to get him off my back. He called his own number from my phone, saved my contact, and promptly added me to two department group chats.

[Over-the-top Park Hyun-woong: Cha Woo-kyung is here!]
[Over-the-top Park Hyun-woong: You worthless bastard.]

The chat lit up with greetings, mostly mocking. I scrolled through indifferently, already regretting my decision to humor him.

“Oh, and there’s a freshman party tonight. Be at Hope, the bar near campus, by 7 PM.”

“What? Why would I go?”

“You’re hopeless, Woo-kyung. This is why people don’t like you,” he said, launching into a lecture.

Apparently, university wasn’t just for studying; it was about character-building. Joining departmental events, getting to know the juniors, fostering camaraderie—it was all part of the “experience.” Freshmen this year were supposedly fresh-faced and pretty, and he couldn’t imagine why I’d want to miss out.

It was nonsense, but I caved and promised to attend. His persistence, my boredom, and the stares from other students wore me down. Satisfied, Hyun-woong got up to leave.

“By the way, still no LASIK?” he asked.

“They say my corneas aren’t suitable.”

LASIK was technically an option, but the procedure was expensive. I didn’t feel like explaining this again—it was a story I’d told a hundred times.

“What a waste of such a pretty face,” he said, his gaze bordering on envious.

“If I had your looks, I’d wear contacts every day.”

He turned his attention to the female students sitting ahead of us, flashing them his signature grin. I pulled my hat down, chuckled quietly, and left the room. Orientation classes weren’t worth attending anyway.

—

“Ugh… Ugh!”

My body was abruptly thrown onto a bed. Before I could even react, a hand seized my head, dragging me towards the edge of the mattress. My mouth opened involuntarily, and a saliva-coated shaft was forced deep into my throat.

“Ugh… Ah!”

The heavy sack pressed against my nose, cutting off my air. The guttural, choking noises didn’t even feel like they belonged to me. The fleshy intrusion violated my throat, moving with raw, animalistic force. My teeth scraped against it accidentally, making me widen my jaw even further in a desperate attempt to avoid hurting it. My jaw felt like it was on the verge of dislocating.

I struggled, sucking and swallowing around the length as acrid pre-cum trickled down my tongue. A voice—soft and almost mocking—spoke above me, so calm it contrasted violently with the aggressive act.

“See? You’re good at this. Why do you always make me mad, huh?”

I wanted to say something, anything, but my mouth was filled, muffling all my protests.

“Now, let’s get this too.”

The man grabbed my hand, guiding it to his length as his other hand pushed my pants down just far enough to expose my own arousal. My clothes bunched around my thighs, pinning my legs together. The pungent, overpowering smell of him filled my nose as he pressed me further into submission.

The cock in my palm was hot, slick, and swollen. I wrapped my fingers around it out of instinct, sliding up and down as he forced my head to move in rhythm. His shaft scraped against the roof of my mouth, pulling free momentarily only to push back in like a relentless tide. The angle left me dizzy, the world spinning as though flipped upside down.

Saliva dripped from the corners of my mouth, trailing down my chin as his relentless thrusts quickened. The swollen sack against my face rubbed insistently, its musky heat clouding my senses.

My own arousal—straining in my hand—grew wetter as I worked it feverishly. Faster. Harder. My breath hitched as I teetered on the edge of release, only for his grip to yank me back.

The heavy shaft left my mouth with a wet, obscene sound, and the man seized my hair, jerking my head up to face him.

“Ah!”

“You have to keep your eyes open and look at me. Got it?”

His voice was gentle but firm, forcing me to comply. I blinked, my vision adjusting to the sight of him looming above me.

The soft, familiar features behind wire-framed glasses. The kind smile that betrayed nothing of his cruelty.

“Who am I, Woo-kyung?”

Im Ji-ho.

I stared at him, my body frozen in shock as the realization hit. My lips parted to speak, but no sound came out. He chuckled softly, leaning in closer as his hand trailed back to my exposed body.

I gasped, trembling as his touch traveled lower, igniting my nerve endings. The air stuck in my throat finally burst free, and I screamed, desperate to wake myself from the nightmare.

“Crazy… Oh, shit!”

—

My limbs, crushed as if caught in a vice, trembled violently, like falling from a great height. My eyes shot open as if my blocked vision had been forcefully cleared. Instinctively, I turned over the pillow and reached for my glasses.

A familiar ceiling came into view—the cheap beige wallpaper with its repetitive pattern of clouds, waves, and flowers. It was the unmistakable mark of my one-room apartment near school, the one I’d reluctantly secured after missing better opportunities.

Yeah, it was just a dream. A dream.

But why, of all people, did it have to be Im Ji-ho?

The lingering aftertaste of someone I knew appearing in such a dream filled me with self-loathing I couldn’t shake. No amount of scratching my head or muttered curses could erase it. Lately, these intrusive dreams had been happening far too often. It wasn’t the dreams themselves that were the issue—it was the lingering, miserable feeling that followed.

Waking up to that emptiness wasn’t new, but the wetness in my underwear only added to my discomfort. My growing frequency of wet dreams was becoming a problem. Back in the military, where I was constantly active, this hadn’t been an issue. But now, with my body at ease, a restless dissatisfaction crept in.

And yet, I felt guilty about these lewd dreams.

Every morning, my body responded perfectly well; I had no issues with arousal or physical drive. When I saw a beautiful woman, I’d think, She’s pretty, and that was it. But beyond mere acknowledgment, I felt no deeper emotion.

It was Im Ji-ho who made me realize something: men could see me as an object of desire, and I could view them the same way. That people of the same gender could evoke such thoughts.

I first met him when I was seventeen. Im Ji-ho, a year older than me, was the only person who consistently took care of me.

The idea that Im Ji-ho might have a crush on me was something no one who knew him would ever believe. Handsome, soft-spoken, with a habit of smiling gently and closing his eyes when he laughed. Add to that his stellar university record, his devout Christian faith, and his social charm, and he seemed untouchable. Even if someone heard that he liked men, they’d dismiss it as a drinking-party joke.

When I first noticed the meaning behind the way he looked at me, I felt disgusted. A man? A fellow guy? Dirty. It was an emotion I couldn’t comprehend back then.

But here’s the funny part—I found myself enjoying the way he looked at me.

Seeing someone as composed and polished as Im Ji-ho desire me—someone so perfect that they seemed untouchable—filled me with a strange sense of superiority. I couldn’t help but wonder: what did he see in me? I imagined all sorts of things about him. I’d picture him harboring wild, unspoken fantasies about me while never daring to confess.

What kind of fantasies did he have about me? Did he imagine me lying submissively, legs spread apart, helpless under him? Or was he the one overwhelmed, powerless beneath me?

My growing curiosity spiraled into dangerous territory. Drunken nights spent on his bed became fodder for scenarios I played out in my mind. Him kissing me as I pretended to sleep. Him tying me up or gagging me at my desk. Even thoughts of him forcing himself on me while his parents sat outside, unaware.

But reality was far from my fantasies. I tried meeting him multiple times, but in his mind, I was untouchable. A pure figure, almost like the Virgin Mary. He never made a move. Not even after I became an adult, not in college, not after military service.

Even when we drank too much, stripped down in a motel room, and rolled around drunkenly, nothing happened. He simply slept.

After that night, I gave up trying to provoke him. I reassessed him entirely. Maybe Ji-ho was some kind of natural-born ascetic. Perhaps he belonged in a temple, not a church.

His restrained behavior frustrated me. He clearly couldn’t hide his feelings, yet he refused to act on them. And as much as it annoyed me, I didn’t harbor deep feelings for him. Ji-ho was just a close, dependable older brother from the neighborhood. Nothing more, nothing less.

But once I realized the possibility of being attracted to men, I couldn’t look at women the same way. If a well-built guy passed by, I’d find myself glancing back, only to feel guilty moments later.

It wasn’t easy. My body began betraying me. During a casual soccer game, someone would pull off their sweat-soaked shirt, revealing toned abs and tanned skin. My mind would wander, imagining myself panting in their arms like an obedient pet.

The more my curiosity about sex with a man grew unfulfilled, the darker my thoughts became. I wanted to be dominated, tied up, or even forced. My fantasies grew vivid, consuming me entirely.

But where on earth could I find someone who could satisfy that need?

The sharp ping of my phone broke through my reverie.

[Cha Woo-kyung, you little punk. Are you ghosting me again?] –16:35

[If you ditch us today, you’re dead meat.] –18:21

[Hey, Cha Woo-kyung. Call me as soon as you see this.] –18:49

Annoyed by the constant stream of missed calls and notifications, I ignored them all. Tossing my phone onto the bed, I stood up, washed my face, and changed clothes.

The freshman party wasn’t exactly appealing. It would be the same routine of drinking games and forced bonding. But the only reason I decided to go wasn’t the threats—I was just bored.

I debated wearing a hat but left without it. Typical of the student housing near universities, my studio apartment was tucked away behind a bustling entertainment district. The meeting spot wasn’t far, so I checked the address once before heading out.

The noise grew louder as I neared, drunk students passing me with laughter and loud footsteps. I glanced down at the sidewalk, scoffing under my breath.

—