Chapter 1 — A Woman Dreams of Escaping, Just Once

It was May 1997. After a sudden typhoon warning in Busan caused complete flight cancellations, operations finally resumed by midday—only for disaster to strike.

A foolish order came down from management: prioritize walk-in sales over reservations. Despite the storm, I worried—many passengers might still show up. But the higher-ups insisted, convinced most would have canceled. So I jumped into on-the-spot ticketing, only to face a full-blown media circus when angry passengers swarmed the counter.

By 11 p.m., we’d barely contained the chaos through emergency flight expansions. My uniform, once crisp and proud, was torn—buttons ripped, fabric shredded—clutched in passengers’ furious hands. Humiliated, I finally left the airport.

The next morning, my day off, I walked toward a familiar hangover soup spot near Mo-jeong Station, having sent the exhausted crew home after a late-night drink to vent about management’s idiocy.

That’s when I saw her.

Leaning into a phone booth, slightly unsteady, a woman in her late thirties stood bathed in the pale dawn light. Dressed in a stark white two-piece set, her long, wavy hair swept back with one hand as she spoke intently into the receiver. She looked out of place—too refined for this gritty neighborhood.

I had a mobile phone, but curiosity pulled me in. I stepped into the adjacent booth, stealing a glance at her reflection through the glass.

I froze.

I worked at an airline—where thousands passed daily, where beauty was commonplace. Yet I’d never seen anyone like her. She looked like a dream. I wanted to pinch myself.

Her call ended, but she didn’t move. Shaking her head slowly, she let out a soft, weary sigh, as if burdened by something unseen.

She began to walk, unsteady, toward Yeonhui-dong. I stepped out after her.

She turned suddenly, catching my shadow.

"Why are you following me?"

"I thought I recognized you."

A lie. One I often told when chasing after women who caught my eye.

"I thought I saw you at work earlier. Was I right?"

"Oh? And where do you work?"

She smiled playfully, though my uniform was clearly visible. Airlines carried a certain prestige—especially with women. Street pickups rarely failed.

"At the airline. Weren’t you at the airport today?"

"Oh… the airport."

There were countless reasons someone might be there. Or perhaps she was testing me. I played along.

"Yes. A family member left the country."

"Then I remember. I think I saw you at the international terminal."

From here, the script wrote itself.

You look a little drunk. If you live nearby, I can walk you home.

It’s too dangerous out here—I can’t just leave a passenger of ours alone at night.

A harmless, kind gesture. One most accepted with gratitude.

She did too.

She lived in Yeonhui-dong. She was 39. Her husband had just left for Germany on business. She’d been out drinking with old friends, and was calling the hotel where he was staying.

"A whole month," she said, laughing bitterly. Her eyes shimmered, on the verge of tears.

"Men work for their families, not themselves. If you love them, you endure."

I nodded. To gain trust, you praise the small things. Show care. Never reveal greed. That distance keeps them close.

When she pointed to her house and thanked me, I turned and walked away, confident she’d call. Kindness always brought returns.

How far had I gone when I heard her voice?

"Wait."

"Yes?"

"You said you’re off duty tomorrow?"

"That’s right. My day off."

"If it’s not too much trouble… could you stay a little longer?"

She invited me to her private calligraphy academy—elegant, secluded, near the former president’s residence. Equipped with rare security systems, the interior was adorned with exquisite calligraphy works.

Lights came on. She stepped into view.

How do I describe her? I knew she was beautiful—but not like this.

Soft, shoulder-length waves. A figure lush yet slender—full breasts barely concealed beneath her top, long legs, a narrow waist contrasted by wide, inviting hips.

Delicate hands. A small face with a refined nose. Full lips painted red, slightly too large for her face, yet perfect.

Our eyes met. My breath caught. I inhaled deeply, struggling to keep my composure.

"Would you like a drink?"

"I’d love one. Wine, if you have it."

She smiled warmly, then returned with a bottle I recognized instantly—Château Rothschild, 1992. A wine worth over a million won.

I was stunned."I haven’t had anything this good in years."

"You like wine?"

"Not exactly. I drink it like November—something I wait for. I’d rather enjoy the new vintage than strain my salary."

She seemed to relax.

Now it was my turn. I told her stories—about the chaos at the airport, how I’d handled it—drawing closer as I spoke, inch by inch, toward the sofa where she sat.

Outside, dawn approached. I had to decide—what to do now, what to save for later.

She sipped her wine, growing slightly more intoxicated, yet never losing her grace.

I knew the game. Rush, and the mood breaks. Talk too long, and she tires.

Wine is soft. Best enjoyed with blues or tango. I asked if she had any Piazzolla.

Her smile deepened—pleased, satisfied.

This was the key. I’d see the hidden her—excited, euphoric, unguarded.

Piazzolla’s sultry tango filled the room. She closed her eyes, swaying gently, lost in the music.

Why had she brought me here? A stranger. A man other than her husband.

The sun would rise soon. No family nearby? Then it wouldn’t matter.

Lost in thought, I nearly missed her whisper.

"Why are you just sitting there?"

Her eyes still closed.

"Do I have to lead?"

My heart pounded. Stay calm.

I set my glass down, reached over, and brushed her cheek.

Then I kissed her wine glass—before pressing my lips softly to hers. She smiled faintly.

"You’re the first to kiss a wine glass. Huh."

Our light kiss deepened into something hungrier. I ran a hand along her thigh, feeling the tension beneath her stockings.

I tested the fabric—strong, but tearable. And she wouldn’t resist.

I leaned in, breathing against her earlobe.

Her hands wrapped around my neck.

Slowly, I pulled her to her feet.

I needed one last risk.

I didn’t like ordinary sex. Softness bored me. I needed passion—raw, intense.

"Let me teach you a dance that suits this music."

In Japan, I’d fallen for tango—authentic Argentine tango. Forget Wong Kar-wai’s Buenos Aires. This was primal, sticky, bodies pressed so close no air could slip through. I’d spent a fortune learning it.

She stood, trembling slightly, and leaned into me.

I pressed my lower body against hers, guiding her heels with my shoes, hands gripping her narrow, firm waist.

My erection throbbed—fully hard. She gasped, breath ragged, feeling it through the thin fabric.

The sensation of her skin beneath the suit—intoxicating.

I began to unbutton her top—roughly. She didn’t resist.

Her white silk camisole revealed full, bare breasts. I cupped one, surprised at their weight and firmness.

She gasped sharply. A soft moan escaped her nose.

To calm her, I walked to the switch and dimmed the lights.

Faint morning light. Tango music. Her flushed face. Her breath.

I kissed her fiercely. Our tongues clashed. Hips ground together.

I backed her against her desk, tore her camisole open—her breasts spilled free.

I spun her around, one hand yanking down her pants and stockings.

"Ah!… Too rough…"

"I want to be honest."

Excited by my words, she reached behind, fumbling with my zipper. Her hands found my cock—fully erect, veins pulsing.

She stroked me, trembling with arousal.

I pushed her pants down.

"Please… don’t take them off. Please…"

She collapsed onto the desk, panting, hips arching. I dropped to my knees, tongue diving into her wet slit.

"Ah!"

She screamed, fingers clawing my hair, body convulsing.

Her wide hips, so disproportionate to her waist, were now slick, sticky—like a tropical valley.

Two hours ago, we’d walked side by side, sharing wine out of loneliness. Now, I was tasting her essence.

I’d seen everything in five years at the airline.

The elderly man who invited me to his Jeju villa after I helped him board—his daughter and I made love on the veranda.

The college girl who spotted me at the airport, followed me to a video room—we fucked wildly.

The young newlywed who offered me a ride home—same direction, she said—we had car sex on the Olympic Highway.

All beautiful, sensual women. But this woman—this was different.

Her body—thick, lush, powerful—was everything I’d only heard of.

And her mind? She’d been an associate professor at a Seoul university until three years ago. I couldn’t begin to guess her intellect.

Her endurance amazed me. No pathetic cries, no begging—just quiet, fierce resistance.

Then—ready.

I guided my cock into her wet heat.

Size-wise, I was thick, flaring at the head—slightly tapered, but massive.

Once, on the Olympic Highway, a young wife fainted by the end of our car sex—overwhelmed by pain, then pleasure. When she woke, she sucked me wildly, swallowing every drop. We fucked until she passed out twice more.

"Worth it," she said, leaving."Your thing… so big and hot."

In winter, I’d pour cold water on myself to cool down—steam would rise from my cock.

I knew then—my size drove women wild. By graduation, I was never alone.

Her wetness slicked my shaft, guiding me to the entrance.

Her consciousness wouldn’t last long.

I made a vow: three minutes to her first orgasm. Three more until reason shattered. Three more—and she’d soar.

I thrust in and out a few times at the entrance. She reached back, trying to stop me.

I caught her hands, pinned them.

Then plunged deep.

"Ah!"

Slow. Slow. Then a powerful thrust. After each, I twisted my hips—then thrust again.

"Too… ah!… full… ah!"

I felt it—the tip of my cock hitting her cervix.

I knew the sensation well.

She shook her head, enduring. Pitiful, almost. But soon, she’d feel empty without it.

I held back my excitement, measuring her depth.

Everyone who’s been here knows the moment.

When the shy woman breaks—her screams, raw and wild—like a woman in labor.

Her body jolted, as if struck by lightning. Breath ragged, gasping.

Now—rough. Not gentle.

Reason snapped. Her full, lush hips began to sway—dancing to my brutal rhythm.

Skin slapped skin—wet, rhythmic, like waves crashing. Her screams came without pause.

Pleas burst out, irregular, desperate.

The second orgasm hit—rippling from her core to the tip of my cock. Her thighs trembled. Sweat pooled on the desk from her chest and neck.

Her body shook, grinding against the glass. I slowed, teasing deeper—pushing her toward the edge.

Until now, I’d only taken her from behind. Now, I turned her—her full body facing forward—and lifted her legs high, locking them around my neck.

Her feet left the ground. Her body moved only with my rhythm.

Maybe she didn’t want me to see her face. She buried hers in my cheek, screaming—raw, throat-shredding cries—clutching the back of my head like she’d tear my scalp off.

Each time her hips slammed into mine, I felt it—the weight, the bounce. Like two inflated rubber balloons colliding—soft, heavy, alive.

Her husband was lucky. To sleep beside her every night.

Inside her—tight, gripping. I felt swallowed—then pushed back by her inner strength.

Tight pressure, but never painful. Soft, wet, alive.

No sign she’d given birth—probably because of me. My cock knew every inch. The tightness deeper inside was even greater than at the entrance.

She’d feel ecstasy now—something her husband in Germany could never give. The freedom of sex. The wildness.

And at the peak—when my hot, fierce stream hit her cervix—she’d lose all sense of reality. As if she’d never lived on earth at all.

One hand found her other entrance.

I used her natural lube—smooth, no pain—slipping in effortlessly.

The valley between her moon-like hips—smooth, like warm ice.

I knew that spot—dangerously arousing.

Push your finger in. Feel the contrast as your cock moves in and out.

Then—both of you, lost in unbearable pleasure, will soar together—into the sky.

"Please! Please!… Aaah!~"

Her violent tremors shook my upper body. Her full breasts, slick with sweat, swayed, droplets falling like tears.

I lifted her gently, laid her on the sofa. Kissed her closed eyes, her nose, her lips.

Her entrance glistened—white fluid seeping slowly from within.

I took a few tissues from the desk, wiped her gently.

She opened her eyes slowly—soft, grateful.

Overwhelmed, she’d fallen asleep.

It was 6 a.m. No visitors yet. I offered my thigh as a pillow.

I closed my eyes, drifting into unfamiliar sleep.

How long had I slept?

Sunlight warmed my skin. She was awake—now in a white dress even purer than her suit—leaning on my shoulder, waiting for me to wake.

"You didn’t wake me?"

"Your sleeping face was too cute."

She kissed me lightly.

"I’ve never had sex this intense."

"That was me."

"Liar."

The clock read 8 a.m.

"Time for people to arrive. I should go."

"No. Don’t. No one’s coming today."

She led me to her house—close to the calligraphy academy. Just as I imagined—luxurious, elite.

Inside—impossible to describe. Only luxury. Only designer names.

She led me to a guest bedroom, insisting I change my wrinkled uniform into a robe.

A cleaner took it away. She blocked the maid’s access with a phone call—clever.

After a shower, I was guided to breakfast. Light meal. Coffee.

I was 32 then. Five years at the airline. Graduated from Inha Technical College. 178 cm. 70 kg.

Personality: cheerful. Loved movies. A confirmed bachelor.

Fluent in Japanese—raised in Japan. Good English too.

I’d chosen Inha only for easier airline hiring. Never regretted more—given how low the pay was.

She was 39. Former associate professor at a Seoul university until three years ago. Met her husband through an introduction. Short courtship. Married.

No children. Her husband—a research director at a major corporation. A rising elite.

One flaw: he had no interest in sex.

And she—never considered betraying her comfortable life. Saw it as foolish.

Today’s affair? A thank-you for my kindness. That night, she’d been drunk on foreign liquor—too weak to resist anyone.

“If another man had taken me, I’d have had no choice but to endure.”

I felt hollow. But then she said:

“You showed me the beauty of sex.”

She’d thought sex was just penetration and release. Now, she knew more.

What else needed to be said? We had time. All we needed was our bodies—speaking wordlessly.

That day, we loved each other until the next morning’s sun rose—exhausted, asleep in each other’s arms, sharing a love beyond words.

Years later, she left for Europe with her husband—still prosperous, still loved.

She emails occasionally.

A week after, she wrote: her husband’s long overseas assignment ended. They were returning to Korea.

She named her first child after me.