Chapter 99: Hana’s Newfound Freedom

The final bell of the afternoon echoed through the corridors of the Academy, signaling the end of the academic day. For most students, it was a signal to return to their studies or engage in the social posturing that defined their rank. But for Hana, the moment she stepped out of the lecture hall, the atmosphere shifted.

She didn’t even make it ten steps toward the dormitory before she was intercepted. A group of second-year girls, their eyes wide with curiosity and their expressions varying from genuine interest to thinly veiled jealousy, converged on her like a flock of hungry birds.

“Hana! Is it true?” one of the girls asked, her voice high and urgent, practically shoving her phone in Hana’s face. “We saw the post! You actually left NEXUM? Like, for real? No contract extension, no ‘strategic partnership’—you’re just… gone?”

Hana blinked, momentarily overwhelmed by the sudden swarm. She had spent years being the center of attention, but this was different. Usually, the attention was managed, filtered through a PR lens. Now, it was raw and unfiltered.

“Yes, it’s true,” Hana replied, her voice soft but steady. She felt a strange, fluttering sensation in her chest—not the anxiety she had felt for years, but a lightness. “I’ve decided to step away for a while.”

“But why?” another girl chimed in, her brow furrowed. “You were the Nation’s Sweetheart! You had everything. Why would you walk away from that kind of power and money? Are you planning to start your own agency? Or maybe you’re moving into a different market?”

Hana smiled, a genuine, small curve of her lips. “I’m just planning to take a break. I’ve worked so hard for so long… I just want to see what it’s like to wake up without a schedule for once.”

The girls exchanged glances, some looking impressed, others looking confused. To them, the idea of “taking a break” was alien. In the hyper-competitive environment of the Academy, where every move was a strategic play for status and reproduction, the concept of resting was almost an admission of defeat.

As the conversation continued, the topic shifted, as it almost always did in the Academy, toward the Prime Candidates.

“Speaking of breaks,” one of the girls whispered, leaning in closer. “We’ve all seen the rumors. We know you, Akane, and Mei are all in Jun’s inner circle. So, come on, give us the real tea. When is it actually happening? When are you, or Akane, or Mei, going to have your first time with him? We’ve seen the clips of him with Sora… the way he handles her is just… wow.”

Hana felt her cheeks flush a deep crimson. She wasn’t used to such direct questioning about her intimacy; in her world, everything had been carefully scripted and sanitized. She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, another girl—a fellow first-year who had already been selected by her own Prime and had recently had her first encounter—let out a heavy, dramatic sigh.

“Be careful talking about it,” one of the girls warned, glancing around to see if any faculty members were listening. “If your Prime hears you’re unhappy, he might replace you with someone more ‘appreciative’ of his efforts.”

“Let him,” the girl snapped, her frustration boiling over. “My Prime was a quick shot. a complete disappointment. He entered me, and before I could even get used to the feeling of him inside me, he was already finished. He barely broke my hymen—I felt the pain of the stretch, and then, bam, he cummed. That was it. Five minutes of ‘effort’ and I was left feeling more empty than before he started. It was a waste of a first time.”

“I’ll tell you the truth,” the girl admitted, her voice tinged with a sudden, unexpected bitterness. “It’s a great feeling when you finally get your turn. The Academy gives you the clearance, the medical check-ups are done, and you finally get that ‘first time’ experience. But honestly?” She rolled her eyes, her expression turning sour. “I wasn’t satisfied. Not even close.”

The other girls gasped, their eyes widening. In the Academy, where Prime Candidates were treated like gods, admitting a lack of satisfaction was almost a social taboo.

She looked at Hana with a mixture of pity and envy. “I hope you girls get something more memorable. Because trust me, some of these Primes are just all talk and no stamina. They’re pampered boys who think a single thrust is enough to satisfy a woman.”

The conversation spiraled from there, turning into a collective venting session that grew more candid by the second. The girls, usually so composed and competitive, leaned into each other, their voices dropping into a conspiratorial hum as they shared the raw, unvarnished truth of their first encounters.

“I thought I was just unlucky,” one girl confessed, her voice laced with a mixture of embarrassment and annoyance. “My Prime spent twenty minutes ‘preparing’ me, talking about how he was a connoisseur of pleasure, but the moment he actually entered, he was like a panicked rabbit. He was so focused on his own rhythm that he didn’t even notice I was in pain. He just hammered away blindly, ignoring my cues, and then he finished before I could even find my breath. It wasn’t sex; it was a chore.”

Another girl let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “At least yours stayed in. Mine was so small and unstable that I spent the whole time wondering if he was even still inside me. He kept trying to ‘angle’ himself to hit something, but he just kept slipping. It was like trying to find a needle in a haystack. By the time he finished, I felt like I’d been poked by a finger for ten minutes. I actually felt bad for him.”

Then came the complaints of emotional neglect. One girl sighed, her eyes drifting toward the horizon. “My Prime is obsessed with a specific vixen in his group—some high-society girl from the Kyoto branch. He treats the rest of us like furniture in his own home. He’ll walk right past me in the hallway without a word, but the moment she enters the room, he’s a different man. When he finally does ‘attend’ to me, it’s clearly a duty. He doesn’t look at me; he just closes his eyes and pretends I’m her. It’s a lonely feeling, being touched by someone who isn’t actually there.”

However, not every story was a tragedy. A few girls shared moments of genuine surprise.

“I was terrified,” one girl admitted, a small, shy smile appearing on her face. “I thought it would be a nightmare. But my Prime… he was actually tender. He spent an hour just kissing my neck and whispering how beautiful I was. When he finally entered, it was slow, almost hesitant. It didn’t last long—maybe fifteen minutes—but it was the first time I felt like I was actually seen as a woman, not just a reproductive asset. I didn’t get the ‘explosion’ some of the other girls talk about, but I felt… cherished.”

“Lucky you,” another girl muttered, her tone returning to its cynical edge. “I’d trade ‘cherished’ for a man who actually knows where the clit is. My Prime spent ten minutes rubbing my thigh, thinking he was being ‘sensual,’ but he never once touched the right spot. I had to practically guide his hand like a toddler just to get a flicker of pleasure.”

As they continued to compare the virility and temperament of their respective Primes, the disparity became glaringly obvious. For most of them, the experience had been a gamble—a roll of the dice that had left them either unsatisfied, neglected, or merely “okay.”

Hana listened to them, her heart hammering in her chest. Hearing these stories made her own anticipation for Jun feel like a physical weight. She didn’t want “tender” if it meant mediocre, and she certainly didn’t want to be “furniture.” She wanted the intensity she had seen in Sora’s eyes—the kind of pleasure that didn’t just satisfy, but completely consumed.

As the group began to disperse, the topic shifted once more, this time toward the digital world.

“Did you see the latest episode of Big Sister on NetFuk?” one of the girls asked, her voice shifting back to a tone of gossip. “That girl who got eliminated this week… god, she was such a slut. Did you see how she kept tempting the men? She was practically begging for a gangbang in the middle of the set. She kept complaining that one man was never enough for her, that she needed more, more, more.”

Hana listened, her mind processing the information. She had known about NetFuk, of course, but hearing the other girls talk about it so casually made her realize something. Even though NetFuk originated in the US region, its influence was bleeding into the Academy, acting like a slow-release intoxicant. The “Western” style of openness—the raw, unrestrained display of desire and the rejection of the “demure” idol image—was gaining popularity among the students, and it was starting to change how they viewed their own intimacy.

“It’s not just Big Sister,” one of the girls added, her voice becoming more animated. “Have you seen The Pleasure Vault? It’s not like the curated videos we see in the Academy’s sex-ed classes. It’s visceral. The cameras are right there—no editing, no modesty. You see everything. The way the women scream, the way they’re drenched in sweat, the way they’re practically begging for more. It’s so vulgar compared to what we’re taught, but that’s why it’s so hot.”

“Exactly,” another girl agreed, her eyes shimmering. “I watched a clip from American Odyssey last night. The girl wasn’t just ‘performing’ for the camera; she looked like she was in a trance. She was shaking, her eyes rolling back, her pussy practically gaping open as she took the man’s cock. There was no ‘grace’ or ‘poise’—just raw, animalistic hunger. It made me realize that being ‘ladylike’ in bed is actually kind of boring. I want to be like that. I want to lose control.”

The conversation drifted toward the more explicit aspects of the platform. They discussed the “uncut” nature of the content—the sounds of slapping skin, the heavy, ragged breathing, and the unfiltered moans that weren’t edited for “aesthetic” purposes. They talked about the “raw” displays of pleasure, where women weren’t afraid to be loud, messy, and completely consumed by the act.

“The most shocking part,” one girl whispered, “is how they showcase the aftermath. You see the sheets soaked, the women completely spent and trembling, their faces flushed with a pleasure that looks almost… painful. It makes you wonder if the Primes we’re paired with are even capable of that. Most of them just want to be ‘gentle’ because they’re afraid of hurting us, but after seeing NetFuk… I’d rather be broken than be ‘gentle.’”

Hana listened, her heart hammering in her chest. She had spent her entire life as the “Nation’s Sweetheart,” a role defined by purity, poise, and a carefully maintained distance. But hearing these girls talk about “losing control” and “being broken” resonated with her on a deep, primal level. She thought about Jun—his confidence, his dominant presence, and the way he looked at her.

She realized that the “NetFuk” influence wasn’t just about watching videos; it was about a shift in desire. The demand for “perfect” women was being replaced by a hunger for “real” women—women who weren’t afraid to be vulgar, to be loud, and to be completely possessed. As she looked at her friends, she realized that the cage of the “demure idol” was finally cracking, and for the first time, she was eager to see what happened when it finally shattered.

As she finally walked away from the group, heading back toward the dorm, Hana felt a surge of confidence. She wasn’t just leaving an agency; she was entering a new era. And with Jun by her side, she knew that she wouldn’t just be a part of that new world—she would be the one leading the charge.