Chapter 1 — Exhibitionist and Voyeur

Sometimes, even in a women-only restroom, men sneak in to spy when a woman enters.

I remember it clearly. It happened in a restroom in a building in Sinchon.

I had met a friend for lunch, and we headed to the agreed spot.

It was a small office building, its basement lined with restaurants.

Since our appointment was at 2 p.m., the place was quiet and nearly empty.

After eating, we lingered over coffee and dessert, chatting about family, children, husbands—typical gossip.

My friend suddenly said she needed to use the restroom and left. Five minutes later, she returned, her face slightly flushed.

She told me that while peeing in the stall, she sensed someone in the next one. At first, she thought it was another woman, but as she focused, she realized it felt like a man.

She hurried out, barely finished, and came back muttering about how crazy some people were.

I was curious—desperately so—but stayed quiet since she was with me.

We kept talking for a while, then parted ways after I saw her onto the bus.

As soon as she was gone, I turned back and returned to the basement of that same building.

The restroom was clearly marked—women's only.

I stepped inside. There were four stalls, and I walked into the second one.

The toilet was a squat-style, and the partitions were prefabricated, leaving a wide gap both at the bottom and at the top.

You could easily see under if you tried—enough to catch a glimpse of someone's face or body.

And judging by the hole punched midway through the partition, someone had clearly been checking women out.

From the beginning, it looked like you could see a woman's face or figure when she entered.

Later, when she stood up to pull up her underwear, her panties and lower body would be completely exposed.

I stood still, clearing my throat, slowly unbuckling my belt and unhooking my pants.

Then I heard it—the door to the fourth stall opening, followed by quiet footsteps entering the third stall, right beside mine.

He must have come to get closer to me.

I lowered my pants and squatted down, letting the stream of urine flow out.

As usual, I slightly swayed my hips, letting the warm liquid trickle from my vulva down to my buttocks.

I wasn't planning to defecate, but aware of the man in the next stall, I stayed seated.

To make it seem like I was straining, I rhythmically clenched and released my anus.

I even groaned softly, pretending to push.

After about three minutes, I noticed movement beneath the partition—shadows shifting under the fluorescent light.

I tensed, watching closely.

Then I saw it—his face, pressed flat against the floor, peering directly at my crotch.

Trying to act natural, I pulled out my phone and started scrolling.

But he had leaned in so close—less than fifty centimeters away—staring intently at my vulva, my anus.

At one point, he even pulled out his phone and began recording video.

A flicker of fear passed through me, but before I knew it, my right hand had drifted to my pussy.

It was already wet with arousal, juices dripping down, trailing over my buttocks.

Knowing he was watching made me even more excited.

I began rubbing my clitoris gently with my middle finger, spreading my legs as wide as possible to give him a better view.

I glanced down.

He was breathing heavily, clearly aroused. One hand was jerking himself off.

Strange, rhythmic sounds came from his stall—moans, muffled and urgent.

I could tell he was close.

Wanting to push him over the edge, I moved my fingers more deliberately, teasing my clit with practiced grace.

I slid a finger into my vagina, then pulled it out, repeating the motion.

Juices poured from me, pooling in my palm before dripping onto the toilet.

Just as a thick drop fell, I nearly cried out in shock.

His hand—reaching from under the partition—had slipped into the toilet bowl beneath my pussy.

I stayed calm, continuing to masturbate.

His hand was catching my dripping fluids, smearing them across his palm.

I grew even wetter, and he collected more, then brought his hand to his mouth—like he was tasting it.

Then, emboldened by my silence, he reached further—his damp fingers brushing lightly against my engorged labia.

He was getting dangerously close.

Still pretending I didn't notice, I kept rubbing my clit, lifting my hips, swaying.

Then, suddenly—his breathing stopped.

A strange, choked moan.

And then—something warm and sticky rained down from above, splattering across my head and shoulders.

It was cum.

He had come—and shot it right over me.

I sat there, stunned, then slowly wiped the thick liquid from my hair and shoulder with my fingers.

I brought it to my tongue.

Fresh. Salty. Definitely young.

It felt like it belonged to a man in his twenties.

I cleaned myself quickly with toilet paper, stood, and opened the stall door.

The restroom was empty.

The stall beside me stood open.

Inside, the floor was littered with newspaper—where he had knelt and spied on me.

Spots of dried semen were scattered across the floor.

I fixed my clothes in front of the mirror and stepped outside.

It was already 5 p.m.

I felt someone's eyes on me, but I didn't turn around.

Tonight, I want to burn my body with my husband.

Darling… love me hard.