Kim Jong-an watches a recording of his wife, Ri Sol-ja, being subjected to a ritual of power and submission by several soldiers. A scene that reveals hidden desires, control, and the complex emotional prison that binds them together.
The projection room in Pyongyang's palace was shrouded in darkness, broken only by the glow of the screen. Kim Jong-an, sitting in his black leather armchair, stared at the recording, his face illuminated by the cold glow of the image. On the screen, Ri Sol-ja, his wife, appeared dressed in tight shorts that clung to her curves like a second skin. The deep red fabric highlighted the prominence of her rear end and the perfection of her narrow waist. She stood motionless, arms at her sides, as if awaiting an order that had yet to arrive.
A tall, athletic soldier entered the frame. His tight uniform revealed the erection bulging beneath his trousers. He leisurely approached Ri Sol-ja, his gaze fixed on her with a mixture of desire and blind obedience. The camera, positioned at a low angle, captured every detail of the scene, as if the viewer were an invisible voyeur. The soldier reached out and, with a quick but calculated movement, pinched Ri Sol-ja's breasts. She didn't move, didn't even blink, as if she were used to that kind of contact. Her nipples, hardened beneath the fabric of her bra, betrayed her apparent indifference.
The soldier smiled, a smile that didn't reach his eyes, and stepped behind her. With one hand, he grabbed one of Ri Sol-ja's buttocks and squeezed hard, as if he were going to leave a mark. Then, he began spanking her with dry, resounding slaps that echoed in the room. Each blow reddened her skin, leaving a trail of heat that spread down her thighs. Ri Sol-ja gritted her teeth, but didn't make a sound. Her breathing, however, became faster, more shallow, as if her body were responding despite her mind.
The soldier yanked his pants down with a jerk, revealing his erect, red, sharp member, pointing directly at her. The camera zoomed in, capturing the moment he positioned himself behind Ri Sol-ja, spreading her legs with one hand. She obeyed, parting her thighs without resistance. The soldier entered her in a single motion, without foreplay, without gentleness. The sound of flesh touching resonated in the screening room, an echo that seemed to reach Kim Jong-an, who watched with a blank expression, his fists clenched on the arms of his chair.
Ri Sol-ja closed her eyes for a moment, as if trying to block out the outside world. Her body, however, began to move to the rhythm of the soldier, who pounded into her with force and determination. The camera panned, showing the scene from different angles, capturing every detail of the penetration, every expression of pleasure and pain on her face. Kim Jong-an leaned forward, his gaze obsessive, as if trying to absorb every second of the scene. His breathing became heavier, his body tense, as if he too were being penetrated by the rawness of what he saw.
Suddenly, the door to the room opened, and other soldiers entered, their gazes fixed on Ri Sol-ja. Without saying a word, they approached, forming a circle around her. Each of them was erect, their members throbbing and ready. The first soldier moved away, and another took his place, penetrating Ri Sol-ja with the same ferocity. She, now with her eyes open, looked directly into the camera, as if searching for Kim Jong-an through the lens. Her face was flushed, her hair disheveled, but her expression was one of absolute devotion.
"Long live the regime! Long live Korea!" she shouted, her voice echoing in the room. The soldiers took turns tasting her body, rubbing their members on her face, her breasts, her mouth. Ri Sol-ja became an object of collective desire, her body an altar of devotion to the leader. The camera moved quickly, capturing every angle, every moan, every expression of ecstasy and submission.
Kim Jong-an, in his armchair, felt trapped in a spiral of conflicting emotions. His body responded with a painful erection, but his mind was flooded with an emptiness he couldn't fill. He watched as his wife was used, as her body became a symbol of his power, but also of his imprisonment. Was this what he wanted? Was this what he needed to feel alive?
In the end, the soldiers retreated, leaving Ri Sol-ja panting and sweating, leaning against the wall. Her body was marked by the men's hands, her face a mask of pleasure and exhaustion. Kim Jong-an slowly stood up, his gaze fixed on her. He walked toward the screen, as if he could step through it and touch it. His expression was a mixture of pleasure and emptiness, of dominance and despair.
The camera lingered on his face, capturing the complexity of his emotions. Was this power, or was this his own prison? The question hung in the air, unanswered, as the screen went dark and silence fell over the room. Kim Jong-an stood there, motionless, as if waiting for an answer that would never come. Ri Sol-ja, on the screen, closed her eyes, her body still trembling, as if the echo of what had happened was still resonating within her.
The palace, with its stone walls and endless corridors, seemed to watch silently, guarding the secrets of those who lived within. The line between power and submission, between desire and despair, had completely blurred. And in that moment, no one knew who was truly free, and who was chained.