Chapter 1 — First Love, and Anal

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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The morning I turned eighteen, my life changed forever.

My virginity was torn away in a scene straight out of a Japanese manga.

And then, sent off by my older brother, I ended up in New Zealand—the country ranked as the best place in the world for women to live.

Back then, the wave of early study abroad hadn't quite hit yet, so it wasn't common to see Korean kids swarming around like they do now.

Since my brother had insisted I continue my studies, my life there dragged on—uneventful and bland.

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Then came university, and my destination was Australia.

Originally, I was supposed to go to Yale—the university founded by conservative traditionalists who'd fled Harvard. But at the last moment, I ran off to Australia instead.

Of course, just over two weeks later, my brother caught me, and I remember getting beaten for the first time in my life.

Thankfully, he eventually respected the choices I'd made, allowing me to keep moving forward.

The reason I turned my back on America? Back then, I was even more arrogant than I am now—my pride stabbing at the sky.

Honestly, I just couldn't stand the way white people looked at me—a yellow foreigner, a foreigner—like I was some pathetic creature flailing around trying to make something of myself.

There were plenty of reasons I could've made up, but suffice it to say, Australia, relatively untouched and uncharted, called to me more.

Even in Australian universities, Korean faces weren't hard to spot.

Most were here for language programs, scraping by on tutoring gigs, always busy, always rushing.

But even if they hadn't been, I wouldn't have cared—back then, I had little interest in people.

About two months in…

Group pairings began for class projects, and everyone scattered with their precious partners.

Left behind were only me—lounging around, idly wandering the halls—and one unfamiliar foreign guy.

Guess it was only natural I didn't know him—he hadn't even attended the class.

He was just a typical foreign guy: tall, slender. But with an unusual platinum-blond head and gray eyes.

Later I learned that a famous actress's gray eyes are said to be a treasure of the British—so rare that even if the famous playwright rose from the dead, he wouldn't change them.

Good. Lord.

With no choice left, I was paired with him.

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So, we became partners.

He was French, named David—though he pronounced it differently, and claimed, quite seriously, that he'd been kicked out by his parents and was now studying the world.

Honestly, at the time, I thought, Does he think I'm some kind of prince or noble? Studying the world? Please.…

But he really was nobility.

I later learned that "David" in English is pronounced differently, a name traditionally given to royal heirs. The current British prince's name isn't a coincidence.

Anyway, after being bitten by a mad dog back home—metaphorically speaking—he was the only one who made me smile each day.

Spending nearly every waking moment together, we naturally began sharing more of our pasts. And without saying it aloud, kisses, embraces, and whispered sexual fantasies followed. Maybe it was only natural we grew close.

Then came the sacred time, just the two of us—David and I.

He handled my body as if it were a feather—something infinitely precious.

As mint-scented candles burned low, my lips burned too beneath his tongue and mouth. My dress had vanished—only my stockings remained. I'm a bit tall for a girl, so I've always loved wearing them.

His kisses continued—down from my lips to my chest, my stomach, between my legs, to the tips of my toes. Everything became his.

All that came from my mouth the entire time was "Aaah…"

He was considerate—never demanding anything from me.

Not even a touch on his penis.

After worshiping my entire body with his lips and saliva, he gently laid me flat, positioned himself between my legs, and kissed me again.

"Now I'm going inside you…"

At that moment, I could only nod, too shy to speak.

His glans—hot beyond words—pressed against my entrance.

Then, slowly, the head of his penis began to enter me.

But whether because I'd given my consent willingly or not, the tight, aching sensation between my legs refused to ease.

David didn't force it.

We stayed like that for minutes—until, suddenly touched by his patience, I told him to just do it.

He asked me several times if I was sure. Then, as if making a life-altering decision, he leaned his upper body over my breasts and pulled me tightly against him.

And then—the tearing pain between my legs…

It wasn't my first time, but still.

Maybe my vaginal opening was unusually small.

Not that I'm short, mind you—I'm 172cm. Seems like there's quite a personal variation in that area too.

By that point, most men would've lost themselves, thrusting wildly, but he kept his composure, his focus entirely on my pain.

He pushed in slightly, then stayed still—kissing me, asking over and over if I was okay.

At first, the pain drowned out everything he said. But after a while, I began to read his expression, to hear his voice.

But more than anything, I distinctly felt the throbbing inside me.

And with that pulsing, fleeting moments of floating, weightless pleasure began to flicker.

For some reason, I briefly wondered if that's where the movie title A Walk in the Clouds came from.

Still sensitive to my occasional pained expressions, he whispered that he wanted to start moving.

I closed my eyes, silent.

He took it as consent, pulled me tightly by the shoulders, whispered in my ear, and began to move his hips.

I braced for pain, clenching my teeth—but somehow, lubrication had seeped in, and his movements were smooth.

Soon, that floating sensation returned, stronger now. A strange, crawling warmth spread deep inside me.

Then, suddenly, something shot through my core—like falling from a great height.

"Ahh… wait… wait…"

"..........."

He immediately stopped, looked down at me, and understood. But sensing my embarrassment, he only smiled gently—said nothing.

Then he slowly pulled out his still-throbbing penis, carefully laid me on my side, and gently pulled me against him from behind. He propped himself up and kissed my chest, neck, nape, and back—endlessly soft, endlessly tender.

Like a wild mother licking her cub…

His lower body pressed tightly against mine, I could feel his erect penis pulsing rhythmically—like a metronome.

And then, strangely, without hesitation, I remembered anal—the word he'd once whispered during our sexual games.

I wanted to do something for him—some strange, selfless impulse.

I told him.

No joy on his face—only shock and disbelief.

Probably worried about me.

After a brief argument, my insistence won. He led me to the bathroom, we prepared quickly, and I lay flat on the bed.

The only difference from earlier? Before, I'd faced the ceiling. Now, I was face down.

And so, I was ready—ready to take his penis into my back passage for the first time.

Just like before, he kept asking if I was okay. I kept saying yes.

My stomach had already been emptied by David, so I wasn't worried about mess—but I still feared the pain.

We'd already had plenty of foreplay in the bathroom, so he climbed on top of me, positioned himself, and I felt him press against me.

Soon, pressure built at my anus—his penis pushing in.

But my body resisted, refusing to yield.

Then, just like before, I felt his glans slip into my anal opening.

Only a slight discomfort—no pain yet, perhaps because I'd consented so willingly.

Behind me, David—still upright—muttered something incomprehensible, lost in ecstasy. Later I found out it was Latin.

Then, as if making a decision, he thrust—clean, deep, straight into my anus.

What I felt wasn't pain or agony—but heat. Burning, searing heat.

I don't know how much self-control I had compared to David's pleasure, but in that moment, my reason pressed down on my back, and I stayed still—only my ragged breathing giving me away.

For a while, we only listened to each other's breath.

Even now, I wonder—why was he the one panting so hard? Was he in pain too?

Anyway, David slowly lifted his upper body off my back and began to move.

As another writer once said, Western men with foreskin experience less friction, reducing pain during thrusting.

Also, their skin is much softer, and the difference in size between flaccid and erect is less extreme than in Asian men.

Which means they don't shrink quickly after ejaculation.

In other words, their size and thickness remain fairly constant—making the sensation smoother.

Maybe that's why, even though it was my first time, there was no pain from the movement.

Just a different, creeping, crawling sensation…

I finally understood why Freud placed the anal stage at the heart of ego and behavioral development.

Who knew the anus had such functions?

"Aaah… Ahh… hhh…"

Without a word between us, only moans exchanged—until he came inside me.

Our first journey ended.

And without pulling out, he held me tightly, kissing me from my shoulder down to my spine—a shower of kisses, just like before.

He cradled me like that, then carried me to the bathroom, cleaned me gently with warm water—cleansed me completely.

Like some sacred ritual.

It was the moment I first understood happiness in a whole new way.

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We spent days like that—days where life without the other felt impossible.

Seasons passed—flowers bloomed, withered, bloomed again.

Then came the first real fight—thethe first time we disagreed on our dreams.

Usually the one to comfort me, he stood outside my door for days.

But I didn't know. I was so broken by our fight that I lay feverish, unconscious, unaware he was waiting.

I only learned later from my housemates and the shared maid.

Like a movie, I writhed in silence for ten days—then woke up as if nothing had happened.

They told me they thought I'd die from the fever.

But what awaited me was something straight out of a film.

Because David was gone.

Vanished—along with his Porsche, the wind in my hair, my hand clutched in his as we sped down the highway.

I cried.

Just cried—endlessly.

There was nothing I could do for him.

I wanted to hurt, but I couldn't hurt anymore.

After another season had passed, when my heart had finally begun to mend,

I returned to the classroom where I'd first met him.

I sat in my old seat, stared at the spot where he'd stood, and cried all day.

But I didn't wipe my tears.

Because I wanted him to know—these would be the last tears I'd ever shed for him.