Chapter 1 — Drenched in Excitement — Prologue

10 a.m.... I sent my husband off to work, and now I'm standing in front of a basement internet cafe.

Not quite morning, not quite lunchtime—this hazy hour when the place is emptiest. That's why we chose it. A secret meeting, timed perfectly.

I agreed to open the door, walk in, and sit at computer A18, ordering a glass of milk as my signal.

My hand grips the glass door's handle.

My heart trembles—racing, fluttering, excited—yet tangled with regret. A swirl of conflicting emotions, blending into a strange, intoxicating thrill.

I push the door open. A small bell jingles. From a counter nearby, a young man glances up, then quickly looks away.

He must have pulled an all-night shift. His exhaustion is obvious.

It's probably unusual for a woman in her forties to walk into an internet cafe at this hour, but maybe he's too tired to care.

Clicking my heels against the floor, I search for seat A18.

It's damp down here—maybe because it's underground, or maybe all internet cafes just feel this way.

Smoking and non-smoking sections. A-row is non-smoking, near the front, relatively close to the counter.

At this hour, no students. Only a few middle-aged men with cigarettes dangling from their lips, tucked into the far corners of the smoking section.

15… 16… 17… 19? Wait—where's A18? After 17 comes 19. Maybe they skipped A18 because it sounds like "ate" in Korean? They must have changed the numbering to avoid confusion.

But I made a promise to meet him at A18.

Seats 17 and 19 are tucked into the corner, barely visible from the counter unless someone stands up.

I came a little late on purpose—yet no one's there.

I sit at seat 19, choosing the spot closest to the wall. It feels safer that way. Then I order a glass of milk.

As time drags on, my nerves tighten. Why hasn't he shown up? Is he just late? Or did something stop him from coming altogether?

For three months, we've talked—only through chat.

We met in a provocative online room, one designed to stir curiosity. Our conversations grew bolder, hungrier. Text wasn't enough anymore. We needed to meet.

An "offline meetup"—an off, as they call it.

But today's meeting is just a kind of introduction. We're only supposed to see each other. Confirm identities. Nothing more.

Still, I know almost nothing about him—only that he's younger.

And he knows little about me—only that I'm a housewife in my late thirties.

We never asked for details. We didn't care about appearances or age. We spoke only of desire, of curiosity, of the raw, unfiltered thrill between us.

For a woman nearing forty, a married woman—this wasn't an easy choice.

Years of loneliness, of waiting in vain for my husband's erection, of silent nights filled with longing… Then came this small escape, found in the glow of a screen.

The joy, the excitement—it left me craving more. And so I crossed a line I should've never touched, telling myself this was just a "check-in," nothing real.

Our chats were almost entirely about SM. The chat room we met in was titled, "Bitch in Heat, Come In."

At any other time, that name would've disgusted me. But back then? Why did it make my pulse race?

Once I admitted to myself that I was that "bitch in heat," the conversations spiraled deeper into filth.

Strangely, those talks—those commands, those imagined acts—filled the emptiness in my marriage.

If anything, they made me more attentive to my husband. More… compliant? More alive? I can't say.

But here I am now, sitting in an internet cafe chair, holding a glass of milk, waiting for him.

Footsteps descend the stairs.

A silhouette appears behind the glass.

The door opens. The bell jingles again.

And then—he walks in.

Soon, I'll meet him. Soon, the filth we shared in cyberspace will spill into reality.

My life is slowly, steadily, drenched in excitement.