Chapter 1 — A Middle-Aged Man's Lavish Dream [Part 1] (1)

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination. All characters are adults aged 18 or over.

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A scene has suddenly come back to me—perhaps I'll describe it now.

By sheer chance, I met a group of doctors. (This might be the last time I ever stray.)

One of them, a certain David Park, the clinic director, persistently tracked me down and begged to meet. After refusing him dozens of times, I finally agreed—on the condition that we meet at his clinic.

At the time, he was in his early fifties: short, overweight, utterly ordinary—a typical middle-aged physician. We'd once shared a fleeting encounter, but he hadn't left any lasting impression, nor did I feel any particular attraction toward him.

When we finally met, he pleaded like a child begging for a toy, insisting I accompany him as his partner to a party in a few days. He offered unimaginable conditions, begging with such desperate intensity it seemed he'd sacrifice his life. After setting my own terms, we reached an agreement.

My conditions were always the same, without exception:
No anal.
No group sex.
No cruelty or harsh treatment.
,,,,,,,,,,

Somehow, we came to terms. He said it was a hanbok party, so I spent the entire morning at a hair salon, adding extensions and perfecting my hairstyle. By afternoon, I carefully packed a large bundle of hanbok and dressed with meticulous care before heading to our meeting place.

He greeted me, shouting "Wonderful!" over and over, welcoming me like a long-lost treasure. He treated my luggage as if it were a sacred chest, gently placing it in his car before driving me off somewhere in a rush.

The whole way, he showered me with flattery and endlessly detailed explanations about the event. It was a reunion of his medical school classmates, he said—held once every three months. This time, it was his turn to host. Everyone attending would be doctors, he emphasized, some of them quite well-known. He made sure I understood his status.

We finally arrived at a seaside villa on Daebu Island. It was late summer, the breeze pleasantly cool, but I was quietly anxious about my hairstyle.

It was a breathtaking afternoon—the sea below the villa bathed in sunset, the sky painted in radiant hues.

He escorted me inside. In the yard, two chefs and two waiters were busy preparing food, completely absorbed in their work. I followed him upstairs. When he gestured to a spot in the room, I saw it—a stunning dress draped over a mannequin, so dazzling it felt surreal.

I couldn't believe such a dress even existed.
As sheer as gauze, as supple as velvet, as smooth as silk.
Brilliant white silk, soft translucent pink silk, and a lavender velvet that flowed like water—
three colors seamlessly layered together. Depending on the sunset's light, it shimmered pink, then purple, then pure white, and at times, like a blended rainbow, it looked utterly magical.

Perhaps the golden light made everything seem dreamlike, but at that moment, I was completely enchanted by the dress.

It plunged deeply in a sharp V down to my cleavage. The back was cut just as dramatically, a V-line stretching from broad shoulders down as if it might reach all the way to my anus—its line exquisitely elegant. The length flowed far beyond my high heels, cascading with graceful excess. And at the front, a long slit opened from mid-thigh down, swaying with every step, teasingly hinting at what lay beneath.

He gently removed my bra, leaving me in only my panties, then slipped the dress over me. It fit as if made for me—so perfectly tailored I felt intoxicated by my own reflection. A truly extraordinary gown.

"But you said it was a hanbok party," I said.

"Hahaha. I thought your hairstyle would look even more beautiful this way… hahaha."

"Do you like my hair now?" I asked.

"Absolutely mesmerizing… Your long neck makes you so sexy… I'm so proud."

He pulled me gently into his arms, his expression one of deep satisfaction.

Among the three pairs of high heels he'd prepared, I chose the white stilettos—the most fitting. With them on, the dress looked even more perfect. I felt like an actress walking the red carpet—pure bliss, utterly radiant.

Guests began arriving one by one. He rushed outside to greet them, busy playing host. I stayed upstairs, watching from the window as they arrived and the chefs worked, occasionally touching up my makeup.

Soon, darkness fell. The garden lights flared on, bright and dramatic. It seemed all the guests had arrived.

He came back up, offered his arm, and led me down to the garden.

As we stepped through the entrance and walked toward the group, they erupted in cheers and applause. Someone even whistled. The lighting was as intense as a movie set, and my stilettos wobbled unsteadily beneath me.

My collarbones sparkled with the fine pearl dust lightly sprinkled on my skin. Under the harsh lights, the sheer fabric of the dress revealed my erect nipples, straining against the silk as if trying to burst through.

With every step, the slit in the dress flashed glimpses of my pale thighs, and deeper still—the shadow of my black underwear, barely concealed, appearing and disappearing like a secret.

That's when I finally looked around.

All the guests were men.

Not a single woman in sight.

A wave of unease washed over me. But they were all mature, dignified men—men of status—so I didn't feel outright fear.

As I moved among them, greeting each one, I caught their whispers—praise, lewd remarks, hungry murmurs.

And worse—because David Park had generously sprinkled perfume, eau de parfum, inside the folds of the dress, dousing the inner layers like a secret offering—every step I took released a sensual, intimate scent, as if emanating from my most private place.

After greeting everyone, I pulled David Park aside, demanding answers.

"Why are there no women?"

"They changed the rules among themselves—men only this time."

"Why?"

"I bragged about you, Sarah Kim. Told them about you."

"Then… what am I supposed to do with all of them?"

"They'll be leaving soon. Just like we agreed—no more than four will stay. Don't worry."

"I'm leaving… I have to go. You've already broken our agreement."

After a long, tense argument, we finally agreed to continue the party. But under those blazing lights, the dress felt like I was completely naked.

The men's eyes never left my nipples, my slit—not for a single moment. Even when I faced them directly, their gazes grew bolder, more shameless.

And the way these doctors spoke—obscene, vulgar, beyond normal decency. From OB-GYNs to internists, men who touched and examined bodies every day—regardless of their education or character, their dirty talk made street thugs seem refined.

Surrounded by all eleven guests, plus four staff—fifteen men in total—I endured three hours under thirty pairs of eyes, all fixed on my two nipples and the deep shadow between my legs.

Then the chefs left. A few guests departed.

To escape the chill of the night air, we moved indoors. Now only six of us remained—me, David Park, and five other doctors: Thomas Choi, Michael Yoon, Peter Shin, Daniel Song, and Andrew Oh.