Ewa's Corny Corner

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Ewa's Corny Corner

"Betrice, built like a Greek temple—one I worship. Betrice, built like an Art Deco tower, streamlined to the heavens. Betrice, btuilt like a parametric structure I help create with my technological expertise. I shall make you the architect of the universe!" Jowan traced a finger along the stone relief, his voice dripping with sophistication. "My caryatid, Betrice! How one of you alone cannot hold the monument of your greatness! I shall carve your innermost desires upon the world with the blood and strength of my heart, until you alone are the Vitruvius of this era!"

Ewa, lounging nearby with a book splayed across her lap, couldn’t resist correcting him. "Actually, Jowan," she interjected—having studied all manner of women in art across history—"Vitruvius wrote that caryatids were enslaved villagers punished for betraying Sparta. Are you suggesting she'll be punished?" 🤓 Ewa’s grin widened. "Because we could punish her together... and make her a caryatid."

THWACK. A brick flew into Jowan's skull, while another bounced off Ewa's ample chest.

"What the hell did you just say, Jowan?!" Betrice roared, her face twisted in fury.

Ewa, desperate to spare herself a brick to the face before the orgy she had scheduled in a few hours, lied through her teeth. "He said 'lard'—because my tits are full of it." 😥

Betrice smirked, satisfied. "Yes, you are getting rather large from all those sweets you eat, Ewa." ☺️ Then her laughter turned wicked. "I heard exactly what that harlot—that love-stealing slit of a cunt—said." She hefted another brick. "I'll use this to build her tomb. She will be the caryatid of my domination. And Jowan will worship only me... and my normal-sized chest!"

Betrice leaned against the console, her voice a venomous purr. "I recorded every encounter we have, Jowan. I'll use your own words against you in my plot to make you my slave."

"Marcus will prove to be of little challenge once I send Avril to seduce him." Jowan didn’t even glance up from his work. "I injected her with an aphrodisiac that makes her see every male she encounters as Drago." 🙂‍↔️

Betrice’s fingers twitched toward another brick. "Give me your unconscious body to have my way with and transfer your mind into your technological system you claim is superior!" 😛

Jowan finally looked at her, unimpressed. "Not until you do it yourself... Become immortal and I shall become mortal!"

Ewa chuckled, her chest jiggling with sinister mirth as she swirled the vial. "I'm gonna pour this into Betrice's drink, give her pleasure only a woman can provide, and then she'll love me and my busty feminine form." 🍹

"Here's an aphrodisiac designed specifically for Betrice's specifications, Ewa," he said dryly. "I trust you know how to use it." 😏

Ewa unbuttoned her shirt slowly, revealing her luscious sweater puppies squeezed into a bra that could barely contain her milkers. "Is there any way I can repay you for this, Jowan?"

Jowan didn’t even look up. "Just leave the food out for the dog on the way out for your dastardly scheme."

"We've come here to discuss Ewa's breasts and how they are a hazard," Jowan announced, arms crossed.

Betrice nodded sharply. "She's slept with everyone on this ship. And one of you got her pregnant." 😳

Laughter erupted. "The virgin boy is right," someone conceded. "This bickering is pointless. She can have an abortion."

Drago watched in awe as the soldiers—united in their shared sin—reached a mutual agreement. "One day I'll bag a ship siren like Ewa," he mused, unaware that Avril had just been born. 👀

Jowan and Betrice stood shoulder-to-shoulder, arms crossed like a tribunal. The fluorescent lights of the ship’s briefing room flickered overhead, casting harsh shadows on Ewa’s defiant grin.

"Ewa," Jowan began, voice strained, "we are here to discuss your… attire." His eye twitched as he gestured vaguely at her chest.

"You’ll never censor me!!!" Ewa threw her arms wide, sending certain assets into chaotic motion. She panted like a cornered animal, bouncing in place with theatrical fervor. "These sweater puppies need to be seen!!!!"

Before they could react, she yanked her top down. Jowan and Betrice recoiled, slapping hands over their eyes like scandalized victorians.

"Why can male actors show their 🤬 but I can’t liberate these masterpieces?!" Ewa jabbed a finger at the security camera in the corner. "The censor’s a coward!"

With a battle cry, she lunged at the lens. The feed distorted as her chest smacked against it.

"The conference room hummed with the sterile glow of holographic charts—all displaying Ewa’s silhouette with red warning labels over her chest. Betrice stood at the podium, pointer stick trembling in her grip like a zealot’s blade.

"As you can see," she announced, voice cracking with faux-scientific fervor, "Ewa’s disproportionately large breasts have been proven—by science—to be a workplace hazard!" She smacked the projection for emphasis, making the 3D model jiggle violently. "I move for immediate surgical reduction!"

A beat of silence. Then, scattered applause from the HR reps who definitely did not sign up for this.

"Jowan, bring in the nipple slider model DDC2BA to eliminate her bullet bra figure." 👩‍🔬

Five hours later, Jowan paced the comms room, the static hiss of dead lines filling the silence. "Betrice normally responds before going to bed. The fire shut down all communications but this unnatural silence has driven me into thinking the worst. I will report back in a few hours."

Smoke curled around Ewa’s bare shoulders as she lounged in a chair made of confiscated bras. On the monitor, Jowan’s paranoid face flickered.

"Oh, Jowaaan," she singsonged to the empty room, tracing a nail down the screen. "Those teens didn’t accidentally knock over that trashcan fire…" Her laugh started low, crescendoing into a full-bodied cackle that sent her chest into a hypnotic earthquake. "Enjoy the silence, darling. Soon, you’ll both be begging for my attention."

Alone in her quarters, Betrice stared at a candle’s flame, pupils dilated. The wax pooled like liquid shame.

She shuddered, pressing a hand to her sternum. The warmth there was unfamiliar. Dangerous.

"…Is this lust?" she whispered, horrified. The flame danced, casting lewd shadows on the wall—shadows that looked suspiciously like Ewa and Jowan in a compromising configuration.

Meanwhile, in Jowan’s nightmares, a triangle appeared above his bed. Not the holy kind.

The dim glow of the studio monitors painted Jowan’s face in eerie blue as he plucked a discordant melody from Avril’s guitar.

"Avril," he crooned, fingers tightening around the prosthetic control remote, "help me write this song about your mother’s complicated feelings for me… and Ewa." The last name dripped like syrup, sticky with implication.

Avril stiffened, her mechanical fingers twitching against her will. "No, Jowan!" Her voice cracked—half fury, half fear.

"There’s no choice for you this time." His thumb hovered over the button. A beat of silence—then the sickening thunk of metal limbs moving against their owner’s will.

The guitar screamed as Avril’s forehead slammed into the fretboard. Strings bit flesh. Jowan tilted his head, admiring the dissonance.

Somewhere beneath the feedback, Avril’s muffled groan sounded suspiciously like "I hate this family."

Ewa adjusted her barely-there top with a smirk, her heels clicking like a countdown timer as she approached Betrice. "Betrice, we're going to an important meeting."

Betrice's eye twitched. "Ewa," she said, voice dripping with suspicion, "is this another surprise party where you ordered male strippers to storm the situation room? Because if it is, I swear to God, I will throw you out that window."

The moment Betrice turned away, Ewa’s fingers flew across her phone—disappearing messages activated—before she bolted toward the panic button hidden behind Encyclopedia of Mechanics, Vol. 3.

"Secret tunnel exit—go, go, go!" she hissed at the half-dressed men scrambling behind the bookcase. "I'll deal with you all later—extra tips, promise!" She blew them a kiss.

Ten years later, the last surviving stripper from that fateful night knelt in the dirt, wrists bound, staring down the barrels of Betrice’s elite guard.

Betrice paced before him, her boots kicking up dust. "Ewa should be standing where you are," she spat. "She was supposed to be the one to pay for her crimes against dignity."

"You're the stripper from that day," Betrice said, cocking her pistol, "and you know too much."

Her adjutant cleared his throat. "That was the last of the male entertainers from your birthday incident, ma'am."

"Which," the adjutant said, suddenly grinning, "is exactly why Ewa hired us ten years ago to do... this."

On cue, the entire platoon ripped off their uniforms, revealing glitter-covered thongs as deafening bass shook the ground. Betrice could only watch in horror as her soldiers descended upon her, grinding to the beat of Ewa’s decade-long punchline.

EWA, YOU LEWD #%&!" Betrice’s scream tore through the air. "HELL DOESN’T HAVE ENOUGH BRICKS FOR WHAT I’M GOING TO DO TO YOU!" 🙎🏻‍♀️

The scream reached Ewa’s cybernetic ears, filtered through static. Her breathing apparatus hissed as she leaned back in her throne, her once-lush body now more machine than flesh.

"Good thing I'm still here in hell, Betrice," she mused, her voice a distorted purr. "And I intend to fuck your bricks until they bow to me." She smirked. "The rightful ruler of this world." 🧱👄

Her general—clad in little more than a strategic leather strap—knelt. "What is your command, Empress Marks?"

The city square seethed with protestors, their signs bobbing like a deranged sea:

Tiger, Ewa’s razor-eyed secretary, burst into the war room. "Empress, they’re breaching the halls!"

Ewa didn’t look up from sharpening her clawed gauntlet. "Let them riot. They’ll rue the day I’m gone." She rose, her mechanical joints whirring. "I’m retreating to the tunnels. Ten years. Train my army. Wait for me."

"Send the decoy clone to die," Tiger said, already yanking a naked, sputtering Ewa-lookalike from the cloning tank.

As the empress vanished into the shadows, Tiger addressed the crowd with a grin.

"That’s why they call me Tiger." She shoved the clone forward. "Because I send lambs to slaughter."

Tiger saluted the chaos. "The Ewanian Renaissance comes in ten years." She winked. "And I’ll be ready."

The protest signs littering the palace steps bore cruel slogans, but the real venom dripped from Mia’s lips as she cornered Betrice in the shadow of Ewa’s defaced portrait.

"She was ugly, Betrice!" Mia’s palm cracked across Betrice’s cheek, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the marble hall. "Ewa had to be dealt with."

"She wanted to fuck Jowan and Mathieu!" Mia hissed, leaning in close enough for Betrice to smell the bitterness on her breath. "She was scheming to take all our men!"

Betrice’s eyes widened—not at the accusation, but at the jagged insecurity beneath it.

Mia’s voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "She was too superior in the looks department. She could’ve started an uprising with a bat of her lashes." A manic gleam lit her eyes. "We fight fire with acid. Hate smothers beauty."

And so, with her own friends’ knives in her back, Ewa was cast out—not for crimes, but for the sin of outshining them. She traveled the world with her crew of men where they encountered the cyclops Polyphemus, faced off against Poseidon and his sirens, plus various Gods of the Greek pantheon. Where she earned the blessing of the Goddess Athena by exchanging her beauty for mechanical power and eternal life, which could only be ended if one hit her heel for some odd reason.

Somewhere, Betrice would stare at the moon and wonder if they’d made a mistake. Ewa, now more titan than woman, would’ve laughed. "Oops."

Ewa gripped Betrice's shoulders, shaking her like a maraca of repressed rage. "Does Korea have anything on par with THAT? Do WE, Betrice?!" Her manicured nails dug into the stiff Ministry blazer. "The Ministry needs to be HIP! Tourism! SOFT POWER!" Without warning, Ewa launched into a twerk-heavy interpretation of traditional fan dance. The security cameras fogged up.

And so Betrice joined Ewa with Mia. Practicing dances with odd music. Little girls would enjoy copying the moves of their leader, most notably the Betrice Brick, the Mia Malaise, and the Ewa Shuffle.

On day 1 of rehearsals, Betrice exploded from the studio, veins pulsing at her temples. "That #%*¥ Ewa changed ALL the choreography!"

Mia nodded solemnly while filing her nails with a switchblade. "She's making us look like backup dancers." A beat. "We could... lose her."

The documentary crew followed Betrice into the confrontation with Ewa where Betrice threw a brick at Ewa and started pulling her hair.

"You always wanted to be lead!" Betrice snarled. "Just like you wanted the manager AND his son!"

Ewa smirked, tapping her Samsung Galaxy S24 Ultra. "And YOU wanted Jowan in Busan. 4K proof, darling." She blew a kiss to her reflection. "The prettiest always win."

"You bought that ass in Bangkok!" Betrice screeched. "No wonder you're full of—"

Mature Content Warning

Ewa's Corny Corner

Part I

Ewa