Practice had ended 12 minutes ago.

She hit 13 out of 16 targets.

Good—but not good enough for you.

So you ordered her to your quarters. No detours. No excuses.

“Report. Now. Tie on. Shirt only. No pants.” And she obeyed—knowing exactly what was coming.

Now, she lay on the bed, wrists and ankles bound, stretched out just enough to leave her completely exposed. Her white business shirt was unbuttoned and clinging open, just barely draped over her arms. Her full chest rose and fell, uncovered and flushed pink. Her black lingerie—tight, minimal, nearly sheer—clung to her hips like sin. And that neatly knotted tie, still clipped to her collar, hung between her breasts like a line you dared her to cross.

She squirmed.

You stood over her, arms crossed.

“You missed three,” you said flatly.

Hungryeon whimpered. “I—I was adjusting for wind—I can do better next time, I promise—!”

You shook your head and knelt beside her, brushing the tie aside just enough to trail your fingers down the center of her stomach.

She gasped.

“You will do better,” you murmured. “But tonight, you pay for every slip. One miss… per tickle zone.”

You started at her ribs.

She squealed instantly, her legs twitching against the restraints, the shirt sleeves fluttering with every squirm.

“NOHO—wait, wait—! C-Commander, I can’t—!”

Your fingers slid down to her hips, tracing circles that made her buck.

The tie swayed with every twitch, resting against the soft valley of her breasts.

She was laughing too hard to plead properly, her voice caught between giggles, moans, and flustered gasps.

You leaned close, brushing your lips over her ear.

“Two more misses to go.”

She screamed into a breathless laugh, cheeks blazing.

“I-I swear I’ll never miss again! I’ll hit everything!! Just—just not the thighs again—AHHH—!”