Chapter 1: Red Light, Black Velvet
The roar of the crowd was a physical thing, a wall of sound that vibrated in Lisa’s bones long after the house lights came up. Backstage was a blur of quick hugs, effusive staff, and the lingering scent of sweat and pyro. Her body thrummed with leftover adrenaline, every muscle singing a familiar, exhausted song. She peeled off her glittering jacket, tossing it onto a chair piled with costumes.
“Goodnight, unnie! Don’t stay too late!” Jennie called, already halfway out the door with a manager in tow.
Lisa just waved, a tired smile on her face. She loved this, lived for it, but sometimes she just needed a minute. The silence after the storm. She grabbed a towel and a bottle of water, pushing through a heavy door that led to a long, deserted corridor of administrative offices. Here, the noise was a distant thunder. Cool, quiet air washed over her.
She leaned against the floor-to-ceiling window that looked out over Seoul’s glittering nightscape, pressing her forehead to the glass. Her reflection was a smudged phantom of stage makeup and damp hair.
“You hold a universe in your body when you dance.”
The voice came from behind her, soft, accented, and utterly unexpected. Lisa jumped, turning. She hadn’t heard a door, or footsteps.
The woman stood at the end of the dim hall, silhouetted by the exit sign. As she stepped forward, the light revealed her. Auburn hair fell in loose waves around a face of ethereal, solemn beauty. Her eyes were a startling, deep green. She wore a simple dark coat, open over a black dress. She was utterly still, yet the air around her seemed to hum.
“Sorry, this area is private,” Lisa said, her English automatic, her guard rising. A dedicated fan who’d slipped security? Her body tensed, ready to call out.
“I know.” The woman smiled, a small, sorrowful thing that didn’t reach her eyes. She took another step, and the overhead fluorescents flickered. A strange, low static brushed against Lisa’s skin. “I just wanted to see you. Up close. Without all the noise between us.”
“Who are you?” Lisa asked, curiosity momentarily overriding caution. There was an intensity to this woman, a gravity that felt completely alien to the world of fan meets and photo ops.
“Wanda.” She said it like it was a secret. She was only a few feet away now. Lisa could smell something like ozone and old roses.
“Well, Wanda, it’s really late, and I should—” Lisa moved to step around her, back toward the busy backstage area.
A gentle pressure settled on her shoulders. It wasn’t a hand. It was like the air itself had grown hands, firm and unyielding, pressing her back against the cool window. Lisa gasped, pushing against nothing. “What is this?”
“Shhh.” Wanda was directly in front of her now, gazing at her with a captivated fascination. One finger, pale and delicate, reached out and traced the line of Lisa’s jaw. The touch was electric. “All that light inside you. So bright it aches to look at.”
Lisa’s heart hammered against her ribs. Fear, sharp and bright, spiked through her. But beneath it, a treacherous, thrilling current of something else stirred. This wasn’t normal. This was power. Raw, impossible power. And it was focused entirely on her.
Wanda’s eyes darkened. Her gaze dropped to Lisa’s lips. The telekinetic grip holding Lisa against the window shifted, softening, becoming a cage rather than a clamp. “You give it away to thousands,” Wanda murmured, her voice a low vibration. “All that… life. Do they know what a gift it is?”
“Let me go,” Lisa whispered, but the command had no force. She was transfixed.
“I don’t think I will.” Wanda’s head tilted. A strand of her hair moved, though there was no draft. “Not yet.”
Then Lisa felt it. A new pressure, low and solid, against her inner thigh. She looked down. The fabric of her shorts rippled against something that wasn’t there. A shape, firm and insistently real, pressed into her. Heat flooded her, a sharp, shocking wave that burned away the last of her confusion.
“What… what are you doing?” Her breath hitched.
Wanda leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of Lisa’s ear. When she spoke, the words were in fluent, softly accented Thai. “You’ve been dancing for everyone else all night.”
The pressure against Lisa’s thigh stroked upward, a slow, deliberate friction through the thin material. Lisa’s knees trembled. A small, choked sound escaped her.
Wanda’s whisper was a promise and a command. “Now dance for me.”
Lisa’s world narrowed to the cool glass at her back, the impossible heat against her leg, and the bottomless green eyes holding hers. The fear was still there, a bright wire at the edge of her senses. But it was being drowned out by a roar of something far more primal. Her body, still buzzing from the performance, recognized this as another kind of stage. A terrifying, private one.
She swallowed, her mouth dry. Her own voice sounded foreign to her. “You’re not… real.”
Wanda’s smile finally reached her eyes, lighting them with a chaotic, beautiful warmth. “Oh, I am very real.” She closed the last inch of space between them, her body not touching Lisa’s anywhere but where the conjured shape pressed relentlessly. “And so is this.”
She moved her hips, just a subtle roll. The friction was exquisite, specific, devastating. Lisa’s head fell back against the window with a soft thud. A concert’s worth of pent-up energy, of practiced control, began to crack and splinter under this one, focused point of attention.
Outside, the city lights blurred into streaks of gold and white. Inside the silent hall, Lisa’s breathing was the only sound, growing quicker, shallower. Wanda watched her unravel, a sculptor seeing the first fissures appear in the marble. Her expression was one of profound, hungry tenderness.
“Show me,” Wanda murmured, her magic tightening its embrace, coaxing, demanding a response.
And Lisa, against every sane instinct, against the voice screaming about danger and strangeness, began to move.
And Lisa, against every sane instinct, against the voice screaming about danger and strangeness, began to move.
It wasn’t the choreography of the stage. This was a raw, hesitant undulation of her hips, a slow grind against the solid, impossible heat pressing into her. The thin fabric of her shorts was a maddening barrier. She could feel every thick inch of it, a perfect, unforgiving weight against her clit. A whimper crawled up her throat.
“Good,” Wanda breathed, the word a hot brush against Lisa’s neck. The telekinetic hands holding her shoulders softened, becoming a caress, sliding down her arms to grip her wrists. Gently, she pinned them against the glass above Lisa’s head. “Just like that. Let me feel it.”
Wanda’s own hips answered with a shallow, relentless thrust. The pressure was divine. Agonizing. Lisa’s body, still thrumming from the performance, caught this new rhythm instantly. Her back arched, seeking more. The cool window was a shock against her spine, a stark contrast to the furnace building between her legs.
“Please,” Lisa gasped, not knowing what she was asking for.
“Please what?” Wanda’s voice was low, hypnotic. She dipped her head, lips skimming the column of Lisa’s throat. The magical grip on Lisa’s wrists tightened, just for a second. A possessive claim. “Use your words, dancing girl.”
Lisa’s mind fuzzed with static, with need. “It’s… fuck, it’s too much. I can’t…”
“You can.” Wanda pulled back, her eyes scanning Lisa’s face—the parted lips, the blown-wide pupils. “You want to. I can see the light in you twisting, burning just for me. It’s so pretty.” With a thought, the pressure against Lisa’s core intensified. The conjured cock rocked against her, a slow, deep rub that made Lisa cry out. “Is this what you want? This friction? This empty feeling?”
“No,” Lisa sobbed, her hips rolling desperately, chasing a fullness that wasn’t there. “No, it’s not… it’s not enough.”
Wanda’s smile was a dark, victorious thing. “Then ask properly.”
A war raged in Lisa’s gut. Humiliation. Arousal so deep it felt like terror. The sight of Wanda’s composed, beautiful face, watching her come undone with such focused hunger, broke the last resistance. This wasn’t a fan. This was a force of nature. And Lisa was tired of being the only one giving energy away.
“Fuck me,” Lisa whispered, her voice ragged. She stared directly into those bottomless green eyes, defiant. “You have a magic cock. So stop teasing and fucking use it.”
Wanda’s breath hitched. The control flickered for a microsecond, a crack in her serene mask. Raw desire flooded her expression. “As you wish.”
There was no fumble with clothing. One moment the fabric of Lisa’s shorts and underwear was a barrier, the next it was simply not. A cool rush of air hit her exposed skin, followed an instant later by the blunt, hot crown of Wanda pressing against her entrance. Lisa’s whole body went taut. It felt more real than anything. Thick. Velvety. Alive with a subtle, thrilling pulse of energy.
Wanda watched her, gauging her reaction. “Yes?”
Lisa could only nod, a frantic little jerk of her chin.
Wanda pushed inside.
It was a slow, devastating invasion. Lisa’s head thudded back against the glass. A guttural moan was ripped from her chest. She was so tight, the stretch a blinding, perfect burn. Wanda filled her with an inch-by-inch precision that was utterly maddening. Her magic held Lisa open, receptive, every nerve ending screaming.
“Oh, god,” Lisa choked out. “Wanda.”
Her name. Said like that. A prayer and a curse.
It shattered Wanda’s restraint.
She withdrew almost all the way, then drove back in with a sharp, deep thrust that stole Lisa’s breath. The window shuddered slightly. Wanda set a punishing rhythm, her body held just apart from Lisa’s, connected only where they joined. Each snap of her hips was controlled, powerful, driving the breath from Lisa’s lungs in punched-out gasps.
“You see?” Wanda panted, her own composure fraying. Sweat dotted her brow. “You take this so well. You were made for this. To be full. To be used.”
The words were filthy, degrading. They lit a fire in Lisa’s belly. Her hips rocked back, meeting each thrust, taking Wanda deeper. The pleasure was a coil, winding tighter and tighter in her core, fed by the sheer wrongness of it, the impossible physics of it, by the raw hunger on Wanda’s face.
“Harder,” Lisa demanded, the pop star gone, replaced by something primal. “Don’t you fucking hold back on me.”
A red flash ignited in Wanda’s eyes. Her telekinetic grip vanished from Lisa’s wrists, but Lisa kept them pinned above her head, nails scraping the glass. Wanda’s hands flew to Lisa’s hips, fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to bruise. She slammed into her, the wet, obscene sound of their coupling echoing in the sterile hall.
Lisa was unraveling, a supernova held in a fragile human form. The city lights below blurred into streaks. Her muscles began to tremble, a familiar warning on the edge of the stage, now signaling a different kind of peak.
“I’m… I’m gonna…”
“Come.” Wanda’s command was absolute, woven with a thread of chaos magic that pulsed through the connection between them. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a detonation switch.
Lisa shattered.
Her orgasm was a silent scream, a violent convulsion that clamped down around Wanda, milking the phantom length inside her. White light exploded behind her eyelids. Her body bowed, held up only by Wanda’s relentless grip and the cold, hard glass.
Wanda watched her, mesmerized, drinking in every spasm, every flutter. She kept moving, fucking Lisa through the cataclysm, prolonging the waves until they were sharp, sensitive tremors. Only when Lisa slumped, boneless and gasping, did she allow her own release.
It was quieter. A sharp, shuddering inhale. Her head dropped to Lisa’s shoulder, auburn hair spilling like blood over golden skin. Her hips stuttered once, twice, pressing deep as a low moan vibrated against Lisa’s neck. A warmth, startlingly real and wet, flooded Lisa’s insides. The solid shape within her pulsed one final, devastating time before dissolving into a phantom ache.
Silence.
The hum in the air faded. The only sounds were their ragged breaths fogging the glass. The world rushed back in—the distant murmur of cleanup crews, the faint bassline of a club down the street.
Wanda pulled back gently, separating them. Lisa’s legs almost gave out. Wanda’s hands, now just hands, steadied her, a surprising tenderness in the touch. She looked spent, her ethereal beauty softened, her eyes holding a vulnerability that hadn’t been there before.
Lisa’s clothes were back, inexplicably, perfectly in place. As if it had never happened. But the throbbing between her legs, the stickiness on her inner thighs, the vivid memory of being filled to the brim… that was overwhelmingly, irreversibly real.
She looked at Wanda, her mind blank, her body humming. “What… what was that?”
Wanda reached out, tucking a damp strand of Lisa’s hair behind her ear. Her thumb traced the line of Lisa’s jaw. “A beginning,” she said softly, her voice now laced with a haunting regret. “Or an end. I’m never quite sure.”
She leaned in, pressing a chaste, impossibly soft kiss to Lisa’s swollen lips. Then she turned and walked down the long hallway. She didn’t look back.
At the far door, she paused. A shimmer of crimson light, like a fading scar in the air, flickered around her form.
And she was gone.
Lisa slid down the window until she was sitting on the cool floor, knees pulled to her chest. She stared at the spot where Wanda had vanished. The scent of ozone and roses lingered. Her body felt brand new and utterly ruined. She touched her lips, still feeling the ghost of that final kiss.
From the pocket of her discarded shorts, now neatly folded beside her, her phone buzzed incessantly. A manager. The world. BLACKPINK.
But all she could see were those deep, sorrowful green eyes, and all she could feel was the echoing, phantom stretch of something that had been conjured from chaos, and had touched something chaotic and hungry inside her in return.
But all she could see were those deep, sorrowful green eyes, and all she could feel was the echoing, phantom stretch of something that had been conjured from chaos, and had touched something chaotic and hungry inside her in return.
The buzzing in her pocket became a drill against her thigh. She fumbled for it, her fingers clumsy.
“Lisa! Where are you? The car’s been waiting.” Her manager’s voice was tinny, frayed at the edges with long-night fatigue.
“Sorry. Just… needed air. A minute.” Her own voice sounded wrecked. Used.
“You okay? You sound weird.”
Lisa looked down at herself. Her shorts were perfectly straight. No tears, no stains. Her tank top was dry. If she ignored the trembling in her legs, the tender ache pulsing deep in her core, and the distinct, slick feeling drying on her skin, she looked completely normal. “Fine. I’m fine. Be right there.”
She pushed herself up, her muscles protesting. Every step back toward the light and noise of the backstage area felt surreal. The world had gone flat, two-dimensional. The chatter of the remaining crew, the clang of equipment cases, it was all just static.
“There you are!” A coordinator rushed over, handing her a bottle of vitamin water. “You look wiped. Get some sleep, yeah?”
Lisa nodded, forcing a smile—the one she had for staff, grateful and bright. It felt like a mask made of lead.
The ride back to the hotel was a blur of neon. She leaned her forehead against the cool window of the SUV, the city smearing past. She closed her eyes and saw flashes. The red in Wanda’s eyes. The shudder of the windowpane. The feeling of being so utterly, completely filled. Her thighs tightened under her jeans. A fresh wave of heat, shameful and acute, washed over her. She squeezed her legs together, the pressure a poor imitation.
Her room was a silent, expensive tomb. She dropped her bag by the door and went straight to the bathroom, flicking on the blinding lights. She stared at her reflection. Her stage makeup was smudged, giving her a raccoon-eyed, debauched look. She looked… fucked out. That was the only phrase for it.
She turned on the shower, steam billowing quickly in the large enclosure. She peeled off her clothes, her movements slow. In the mirror, she saw them—faint, bruise-like imprints on the sharp bones of her hips. Five subtle smudges on each side, where Wanda’s fingers had dug in. Proof.
She stepped under the scalding water, flinching as it hit her sensitive skin. She soaped herself roughly, trying to scrub away the feeling, the scent of roses that seemed woven into her very pores. But when her fingers slid between her legs, washing the tangible evidence of Wanda’s release from her thighs, her breath caught. The memory was a live wire. The stretch. The utter fullness. The look on Wanda’s face as she came.
Her hand stilled. This was insane. She’d been pinned by telekinesis and fucked by a magical construct by a woman who could disappear in a flash of red light. She should be calling security. She should be terrified.
Instead, she was achingly, desperately wet.
She braced one hand against the shower wall, the other moving between her legs with a frantic, furious pressure. She wasn’t gentle. She imagined it was Wanda’s will moving her hand, Wanda’s magic curling inside her again. She thought of that low, accented voice in her ear. Dance for me. Her climax hit her fast and brutal, a stolen, shameful thing that made her bite her own fist to keep from screaming a name she barely knew. She slumped against the tiles, water pounding her back, gasping. It was nothing like the cataclysm Wanda had pulled from her. This was just a drain. An empty spasm.
She slept fitfully, tangled in sheets that smelled like hotel detergent and, impossibly, a hint of ozone. Her dreams were fragmented—laser lights twisting into red mist, a dance floor that fell away into nothing, green eyes watching her from the darkness.
Morning came with a gray Seoul light and a schedule. A photo shoot. Interviews. Another city in two days. The normality of it was a cage.
The photo shoot was in a sleek studio. She was posed on a white platform, wearing a designer dress that felt like cardboard. The photographer’s clicks were like insect bites. “Beautiful, Lisa! Give us that fierce look! Yes!”
She contorted her body, her face falling into the familiar expressions. But her mind was elsewhere. Tracing the outlines of the impossible. The press of telekinetic hands. The physics-defying solidity of Wanda’s conjured cock. The warmth that had flooded her. It had felt real. More real than the fabric against her skin now.
During a break, she scrolled her phone aimlessly. News articles about the concert. Fan edits. Nothing about mysterious red-headed women with reality-altering powers. Of course not.
“You seem distracted, Liz.” Jennie nudged her, sipping an iced coffee. “Still riding the post-show crash?”
“Something like that,” Lisa murmured.
“Yeah. It’s a weird come-down.” Jennie shrugged. “You need a distraction. We should go out later. Just us. No managers.”
A distraction. Lisa almost laughed. What could possibly distract her from this?
The interview later was a video call with an Australian music site. The host was perky, asking about their world tour, about inspiration. Lisa answered on autopilot, her smile flawless.
“And what about personal inspiration, Lisa?” the host asked. “Anything… or anyone new sparking creativity?”
The question was routine. Fluffy. But it landed like a brick in her gut. Wanda’s face flashed before her eyes. You hold a universe in your body when you dance.
Lisa’s smile didn’t slip. “Oh, you know. Always looking. Always open to new… experiences.” The word tasted dangerous on her tongue.
That night, back in the hotel, Jennie’s plan for a low-key dinner out morphed into a table at a members-only club, all deep bass and low lighting. Lisa sat in a curved booth, watching bodies move. Normal bodies. Normal desire. It all looked so simple. So boring.
She excused herself to find the bathroom, weaving through the crowd. The corridor was quieter, lined with dark wood. As she pushed the door open to the pristine lounge, the air shifted.
The scent hit her first. Ozone and old roses.
Her heart stopped, then slammed into her ribs. She turned slowly.
There, leaning against the marble countertop near the sinks, was Wanda. She wore a simple black slip dress now, her hair a dark cascade over her shoulders. She was applying a deep red lipstick, watching Lisa in the mirror.
No shock. No flash of light. As if she’d been waiting there for hours.
“You,” Lisa breathed. The door swung shut behind her, sealing them in.
Wanda finished tracing her lip, pressed her lips together, and turned. Her eyes were the same. A universe of sorrow and power. “Me.”
“How did you… why are you here?” Lisa’s voice was a tight whisper. She should run. She knew she wouldn’t.
“You thought about me.” Wanda said it as a simple fact. “You touched yourself thinking of me. In the shower.” She took a step closer. The air grew dense, charged. “That has… a signature. For someone like me. A little beacon of want.”
Lisa’s face flushed with humiliation, with a thrill that was far worse. “You were watching?”
“Not in the way you think.” Another step. The space between them crackled. “I felt it. The echo. It was loud.” She was close enough to touch now. Her gaze dropped to Lisa’s lips. “And I find I am not done with you yet.”
This time, there was no slow seduction. Raw need took the wheel. Lisa grabbed the front of Wanda’s dress, fisting the silky material, and yanked her forward, crashing their mouths together.
The kiss was a battle. Teeth, tongue, a desperate clash. Wanda made a sound—a low, surprised groan—and then her power surged. Lisa felt herself lifted, carried backward without a hand touching her. Her ass landed on the cold edge of the marble counter, Wanda stepping between her spread legs. The door locks clicked shut with definitive, solid thunks.
Wanda’s hands dragged up Lisa’s thighs, hiking up her short dress. Her fingers hooked into the sides of Lisa’s thong and ripped. The delicate lace gave way with a sick, satisfying tear.
“You’re still so wet for me,” Wanda murmured against her mouth, her fingers sliding through Lisa’s slickness with a crude, proprietary touch. “Aren’t you?”
“Shut up,” Lisa gasped, her head falling back as two of Wanda’s fingers pushed into her without ceremony. They curled, finding a spot that made Lisa see stars. “Oh, fuck. Right there.”
“Demanding,” Wanda chuckled, but her breath was hot and uneven. She pumped her fingers, her thumb pressing hard circles on Lisa’s clit. It was rough, efficient, and devastatingly good. Lisa rocked against her hand, her heels digging into the small of Wanda’s back. The mirror fogged beside them.
“Not enough,” Lisa panted, her nails scraping down Wanda’s back. “You know what I want. Give it to me. Now.”
Wanda’s eyes blazed crimson. She withdrew her soaking fingers. The pressure at Lisa’s entrance returned, but different this time—more urgent, hotter, even thicker than before. It nudged against her, a blunt, demanding threat.
“You learn fast,” Wanda said, her voice guttural.
“I know what I like,” Lisa spat, her hips canted upward, begging.
Wanda sheathed herself inside Lisa in one brutal, glorious thrust.
Lisa’s scream was swallowed by Wanda’s mouth. The stretch was beyond exquisite—it was ruinous. Her body strained to accommodate the girth, the impossible, magic-forged reality of it. Wanda set a merciless pace from the start, her hips pistoning, the counter rattling with every drive. Each impact jolted through Lisa, a lightning bolt of pure sensation.
“Is this what you craved?” Wanda grunted, her forehead damp against Lisa’s. “This filthy, full feeling? My cock splitting you open in a public bathroom?”
“Yes! God, yes!” Lisa was babbling, her coherence shredded. She was a vessel, being used exactly as she’d asked to be. The obscenity of the location, the risk, the sheer wrongness of it all, poured gasoline on the fire. Her second orgasm built, a tsunami in her depths.
Wanda could feel it. She shifted the angle, hitching Lisa’s legs higher over her arms, plunging even deeper. The new position made Lisa sob. She was so deep, Lisa felt owned, branded from the inside out.
“Come on it,” Wanda commanded, her rhythm becoming erratic, ferocious. “Soak me. Let me feel you lose it.”
The command, laced again with that thread of compelling magic, tipped her over. Lisa came with a raw, guttural cry, her inner walls clamping and fluttering around the relentless, pounding