At nineteen, Jungkook was a walking paradox of purity and filth. He possessed a delicate, angelic face and a lean, lithe body, but beneath his clothes lay a secret that kept him in a state of perpetual, aching arousal. He was intersex, blessed with heavy, soft breasts that tipped with sensitive, dark nipples, and a pristine, untouched pussy that had never known the touch of a man.

For years, Jungkook had lived in a state of agonizing anticipation. He didn't want a gentle first time; he didn't want candlelight or soft whispers. He wanted to be broken. He wanted to be claimed with a violence that would erase any doubt of who he belonged to. He craved the feeling of being stretched, filled, and used until he couldn't remember his own name.