[M/GM4FFFF)] [First Debut] Idolized By Idols

“Cyan. They’re not worth it.” I told Cyan with a head shake.

My name’s Aki ‘Taki’ Takahashi, former center of Inferno, a K-Pop group under Nymph Entertainment. During our legendary 7 year run, we not only smashed the Asian billboards, but also performed in the U.S. at Coachella and Outside Lands before our group disbanded in pursuit of creative freedom and various solo ventures. While I found some middling success in mainstream acting, I ultimately returned to Nymph to found and manage CLOV4R.

Cyan, her bob-cut dyed after her namesake, was one of CLOV4R’s four members. CLOV4R wouldn’t be the best dancers, nor the best-looking (at least in comparison to the supermodel 10/10s), but they’d be the best performers and exude unforgettable stage charisma; proof that even in the manufactured, shiny yet hollow K-pop industry, authentic talent could thrive despite living underneath the entertainment industry’s shadow. Their logo, a four-leaf clover, each of its separate petals a unique color of red, blue, green, and white, symbolized the four girls who comprised the group: Ruby. Cyan. Neon. Moon. All talent and a dash of luck to pursue a dream: engaged and betrothed to the fans, CLOV4R would perform at Sky Dome within 7 years as their wedding ceremony to them or die (figuratively) trying.

Last night, CLOV4R debuted on a YouTube livestream and performed a rendition of SEVENTEEN’s ‘Anyone’ and Aespa’s ‘Next Level’, before its members individually introduced themselves to their viewers and partook in a group Q&A before signing off. That was when the incident occurred.

For context, Cyan turned heads on the streets with her tomboyish look and her casually edgy, yet fashionable streetwear. A respectable, solid 8. But in K-Pop’s kingdom, she was an unremarkable 6 to the majority and a “FFF”/“fatty flat four” from her worst critics. Those thighs that wrecked the dance floor? Her critics claimed if they got any fatter they’d quite literally do so.

Throughout the livestream, Cyan pointedly ignored the flatscreen’s cruel comments as I hastily deleted them and banned her worst offenders from the chat. In the aftermath, she laughingly brushed it off with her partners’ support, but now, surrounded by wall mirrors and underneath the dance studio’s harsh white lights 24 hours later, it was clear she remained shaken. Her movements were sluggish; her foot stomps lacked force, as if she feared fulfilling her critics’ prophecy, moving too carefully in a choreography that emphasized sharp, purposeful movements. Although the cameras situated around broadcast what they recorded to a nearby flatscreen to be used for personal improvement, they currently contributed to tearing her down.

Drastic measures were in order; I paused the music. She stood, fists clenched, head hung low, gazing at the floor with her teeth pressed against her bottom lip. “Cyan. Take your clothes off. Everything but your socks.”

That got her attention. “What?”

“You heard me. You squandered your chance to practice properly, so you’re going to do it naked instead. Strip.” I snapped my fingers at my blue-haired trainee twice.

The young woman’s tensed shoulders rose in defiance, then fell in resignation. With an expression that screamed that she’d rather be anywhere else, she sluggishly stripped down until she stood shivering while awkwardly attempting to cover up her body with her arms. I neatly folded her tank top and leggings into a square, then placed it inside a nearby cubby with her undergarments laid atop. Ignoring her discomfort, I fiddled with the studio’s thermostat until it was comfortably warm even for a naked person before returning to her side and pointing towards the mirror, the music leading in once again. “Alright, let’s take it down from the top again. One. Two. A-1-2-3-4.” I said, as though she weren’t naked at all.

We performed the routine together, yet her movements continued to convey her troubled thoughts. We ran it again. Once. Twice. By the third round, I had what I wanted as the music ended. As I turned towards Cyan, her face betrayed the anxiety of an employee expecting a reprimanding from their manager. “Cyan, what are you right now?”

“I, -uh, I’m not-“ She stammered.

“I’ll tell you. You’re hot as fuck.”

Incredulity flashed across her face. I continued, “And what are you going to be?”

“I… don’t know?”

“You’re going to be the best.” Grabbing her by the shoulders, I shook her twice with a splash of roughness. “Look at that.” With several remote clicks, the wall-mounted flat screen replayed the routine Cyan and I had just performed, her lovely lady bits jiggling around. “Is that not a 10 out of 10 banging piece of ass?”

She remained silent as I moved behind her and pressed my groin against her backside, hands on her shoulders. At least, they were, before they cupped the underside of her breasts, pushing them up. “Does my fucking cock feel like it belongs to someone who doesn’t want to bend you over right now?” Suddenly squatting down, my head level with her ass, I pressed my cheek against one buttock, wrapping my legs around her knees, staring at our reflection. “You’re telling me some unshaven Cheeto eating basement dwelling fat neckbeard wouldn’t want these legs wrapped around their head?” I argued fiercely, jabbing a finger at our reflection.

It's strange: I’m trying to be as un-perverted as possible when advocating for Cyan’s attractiveness, while painfully aware of how good her legs feel against my face, how the shivering goosebumps on her body titillated me, how her pale chest had adopted an adorable shade of pink throughout this exertion. Even her sweat’s slight muskiness sent blood flowing toward my nethers as I restrained the urge to actually bend her over then and there.

Perhaps I was projecting myself onto that neckbeard. Just a bit. Eh.

“I’m sweaty.” She stated matter-of-factly, blushing furiously.

I ran my palm down her leg, then flamboyantly licked my fingers. “So what? More for me. For some coomer out there, your sweat’s gonna be worth its weight in gold and they’d be positively nutting buckets at the thought of being me right now.”

An incredulous, but embarrassed smile cracked Cyan’s face, accompanied by a short snigger and even I couldn’t hold my composure. “Thanks.” She muttered, her cheeks aglow.

It’s strange. Compared to seeing her strip down naked, what disarmed me most was the bashful blush that blossomed across her cheeks. I bit my lip, unable to look her in the eye until I did, and asked, “What are you right now?”

Her voice was quiet, yet proud. “Hot as fuck.”

“What are you going to be?”

Her grin widened; her eyes glimmered, “The best.”

My smile matched hers and I patted her on the shoulder. “You’re damn right. Now put your clothes back on before you make me want to take mine off. And let’s do 3 more rounds just to really drive it home.”

And with that, Cyan danced just as well as she did yesterday on that livestream, even giving me a little bow as I clapped for her at the end before we went our separate ways for the evening: her, to a hot shower and I, to check in with the other idols. But not before a tight hug and what was undoubtedly an inappropriate clap on her ass from my end.

As their manager, I was responsible for their mental and physical condition. But as I’d ingeniously concocted the monetization of selling CLOV4R’s fans engagement/wedding merchandise by appealing to hardcore stan psychology to fund our shared dream, it was imperative that my girls not be seen dating other young men, lest the illusion of them being ‘saved’ and ‘pure’ for their fans at Sky Dome be shattered.

But that didn’t change that young people, girls included, loved to fuck: a well-fucked girl was a happy girl. But why risk external threats of indiscretion, a young male’s loose lips or the possibility of youthful hot-headed drama, when someone close to all the girls in question could handle their needs with professional discretion and experience in passion? Just one more thing I decided to be responsible for, if they wanted me to.

“They’re idols. And idols are meant to be idolized. But when the limelight fades and they’re off stage, your idols will idolize you.”

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Kinks: bodies pressed against the dance studio’s mirror in the middle of a choreography practice, deleting the sloppy oral audio files accidentally recorded inside the sound booth, trying on and stripping off a variety of idol outfits, getting showered with rose bouquets no more than an hour after being showered with cum, having the confidence fucked back into them after reading the hateful comments written by anonymous stans of other K-Pop groups, being mentored into the best you can be as both a slut and an idol, the ecstatic reverse gangbangs following an outstanding concert.

But let’s be real, after something like that, what they might want most could be having a sympathetic person know what they want most is to kick off their heels, bring them a cup of caffeine-free chamomile tea, and tuck them into bed.

Optional darker kinks: dubious abuse of authority, gaslighting young impressionable girls into thinking that acts of service will increase their sex appeal

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