Chapter 1 — First Love, First Affair - Part 1

My name is David Yeon. I'm 35. I studied international trade in Korea, then came to the U.S. for an MBA. After years of grinding on temporary visas, sweating under indentured-like conditions at an Indian-run company just to secure my green card, I finally earned the right to stay. I'm 178cm tall, 90kg—solidly built, muscular, with a small, weathered face. I've never dated a woman before. A textbook nerd, rigid in principle, socially awkward, clueless when it comes to women.

Emma. 32 years old. Her real name is Emma Cho, but she took her husband's surname—Emma Cho. A married woman. A married woman having an affair. She studied fine arts in Korea, came to the U.S. for school, worked part-time at a bank, and ended up marrying a Korean-American man—one year younger than her, good job, fluent English. They've been married six years. No children.

She's 162cm, 48kg—fair-skinned, delicate features, light on her feet. But what stands out are her proportions: full breasts, rounded hips, thick thighs. Despite six years of marriage, no kids, so her body still looks like it did when she was a virgin. Gentle by nature, elegant, kind. To me, she's my first love. To her? This is her first affair.

I'm a management lead at a small but solid company. Never made it into the executive ranks of a big corporation, but at 35, I carry responsibility, earn a decent salary—around $160K—and get bonuses worth about 200% on top. I live comfortably in a modest single-family home in Rancho Palos Verdes, a coastal city. I have a virtuous, beautiful, obedient wife. No kids. A childless household, the head of a quiet family. But to most women, I probably don't come off as an ideal husband.

I went to all-boys middle and high school, then graduated from a college where there were barely any female students—just a sea of men. I never had much chance to interact with women. And after moving to the U.S., landing a work visa, drowning in the grind of immigrant survival, dating was out of the question.

Back in those days, stuck in American schools where foreigners were marginalized, shivering under the thumb of a soul-crushing Indian employer who held my green card hostage—I had zero social life. Once I got my residency, I landed a job at an American firm, finally secured housing in the Korean enclave I'd dreamed of. Everyone else around me found love, dated, married. But my fate? Women seemed to avoid me like bad luck.

A long time ago. Back when the internet was just becoming mainstream in the U.S.—that's when the possibility of meeting someone finally opened up. I paid for an expensive SDL line back then, joined a singles club, spammed my profile everywhere, sent heartfelt emails, photos, anything to catch attention.

Her name was Grace Juri. Age 32. Education: college graduate. Occupation: Bank. Status: No Answer. Height: 162cm. Weight: 47kg.

It bugged me that she didn't specify if she was single or divorced. But I had nothing to lose, so I sent her my post, letters, pictures anyway. And then—she replied.

[Hi! I'm Grace Juri. I've never received such a sincere letter from a man before. Every woman dreams of getting a message like this, but it stays fantasy. Now it's happening to me. Most of what I wrote is true. 31 is my American age^^. So I'm actually younger than you. Haha… But I'm married. You're looking for a marriage partner, and I can't be that for you. Still, I'd like to be friends. Like siblings. No pressure.]

At first, I was disappointed. Another dead end. But deep down, I'd always wished for at least a little sister—or older sister figure. So I told myself: fine. At least I've got someone to talk to. Someone of the opposite sex. That'll do.

Setting up our first date took time—because she had to find a believable excuse to leave the house after dinner. When we finally met in Koreatown, she was still in her bank uniform. They used to call bank tellers "the white-collar flower," but these days, they wear blue-collar-style tops and plain navy slacks like uniforms.

She called me David without hesitation. Said she never had an older brother, and her husband was two years younger, an English speaker. Her name? Emma Cho. Dressed in the standard, cookie-cutter bank uniform—but her looks were exceptional. Married six years. No kids. By her husband's choice, they decided not to have children.

We sat in a quiet American-style restaurant, and she chattered endlessly. For the first time, I realized how exhausting it could be to sit across from a woman.

"David, why aren't you married yet? There are plenty of single women…"

"Hmm. Maybe because I haven't met someone like you?"

"What?? Hohoho. You're joking, right? Just saying that to make me feel good?"

She knew it was a cliché, but she didn't scold me for it.

"I got married at twenty-six. My husband was twenty-five. I came here for school too, but started working right away—needed the green card. I met him while working part-time at a bank. He was visiting from a partner company. He spoke perfect English, seemed smart, someone I could learn from. But at home… he struggles with Korean, I struggle with English. Talking to each other is always hard. And being younger—he was cute at first. He's good. Gentle, responsible. But too individualistic. Lacks… presence. Like he's not really the head of the household."

She gossiped like a fish in water, chatting freely in front of me, a Korean-born man several years her senior. I almost nodded off.

After dinner, I debated asking her for coffee—but she made an excuse about not wanting to get home too late and left immediately. Come to think of it, she lived far out in the suburbs, a standalone house. Even if I dropped her off now, it'd be past 8 p.m.

After that, we met two more times. Nothing changed. Exactly three weeks later, we met again on a Saturday. Then the next Saturday too. She wanted to see a movie—something romantic, not her husband's taste. Didn't feel right going alone, and her friends were busy with families, husbands, kids. So I had to go with her.

Honestly? Boring. Two hours in the theater, sitting side by side, staring forward, not moving. Afterward, under an outdoor canopy, I had to listen to her endless chatter.

But I couldn't blame her. Their emotional worlds were completely different. Language barriers. A husband who hated it when she pursued her own interests. Weekends probably meant going separate ways. And no kids for years—so few shared topics, no shared events. It wasn't just boredom. It was deeper.

Then, about a month later, she called me.

We couldn't talk often, but whenever we connected, she'd chatter nonstop. Sometimes complaining about her husband, sometimes gossiping about coworkers and bosses. I wasn't sure I could fully trust her calls.

"David, the weather's so hot lately. Let's go to the beach. My husband left yesterday for a business trip on the East Coast."

I felt a strange jolt—like a crab had pinched my foot—but I drove to the Burbank mall parking lot where she said she'd left her car.

It was unusually quiet that day. I spotted her easily—but for a second, I almost mistook her for someone else.

She stood there, smiling at me from afar, completely transformed.

A soft, flirty mini dress. An A-line cut that barely covered half her thighs.

I'd never realized how beautiful her legs were. Not just long and thin—they had volume. Her calves were toned, the curve where her pale thighs began and ended was perfectly defined. Her hips were substantial, not round, but compact, tightly packed—dense.

Her hair, usually kept short due to housewife practicality, reached just past her shoulders, curled outward at the ends. And instead of her usual black, it was dyed light bronze.

And her makeup—far from light. Thick foundation. Soft pink blush. Pale sky-blue eyeshadow. Sharp liquid eyeliner. Voluminous, clearly defined mascara. Deep red lipstick. Yet none of it looked cheap.

I froze. I could picture her—heart pounding, spending ages in front of the mirror just for me. Before desire hit, a lump rose in my throat. Emotional. Overwhelming.

"David. Why are you staring like that? It's embarrassing…"

"…Did you dress like this for me?"

"…Do you really think I did all this for anyone else? David, you're too much…"

A coy act—so unlike her.

Clothes truly are wings. She looked like a refined lady. Others might've called it artificial, garish. But to me? Fresh. Electric.

In the car, I didn't want to open the window—her perfume was intoxicating. Walking along the beach, I kept glancing at her, marveling at how completely different she looked. How a woman could transform so utterly.

Soon, her arms swung naturally as she walked, and her right hand kept "accidentally" brushing against my left. Finally, our hands overlapped.

My heart slammed.

By the time we reached the pier, the sun was setting.

Her face glowed in the twilight. Then, gently, she leaned her head on my shoulder.

I turned toward her, trembling, and lightly wrapped my arm around her neck.

Emma closed her eyes.

Her lips—painted red, lined sharply with liner—were begging to be kissed.

I slipped my arm around her waist. She pressed herself against me—tight.

And then, for the first time in my life, I kissed a woman.

She accepted my lips shyly, eyes closed, honoring the moment—our shared first. But then she took over.

She parted her lips slightly. And it was her tongue that gently touched mine.

I didn't care who saw. I pulled her closer. Her balloon-soft breasts flattened against my chest. Our mouths refused to part.

Our breathing grew ragged. Her hot breath scorched my nose. One of my hands slipped beneath the hem of her short dress—smooth, warm thigh.

Higher. Higher.

My fingers crept up under her skirt. Her panties—probably a brief T-string—slipped through my grasp. The tight elastic snapped against my skin.

Then—her hand clamped down on mine, yanking it away.

She abruptly broke the kiss, turning her head sharply.

She faced away, head bowed, smoothing her skirt down over her left thigh.

Adjusting the panties I'd tugged down.

Once the line of her underwear was restored, she tapped her lips lightly with her fingertips—over and over.

Was she trying to wipe away the feeling of my mouth?

The shock, the shame I'd felt earlier faded. Now I felt like a criminal.

What could I say to comfort her?

"Let's go…"

Her quiet voice snapped me to attention. I hurried to walk beside her.

I'd lifted a married woman's skirt. Pulled down her panties.

Guilt crashed over me like the dark ocean swallowing the sunset.

Maybe she'd only meant to allow a kiss.

We walked silently along the pier. I had no idea how to apologize.

Couples, families, lone fishermen—they must've seen everything. Or pretended not to. Maybe they didn't care.

"David… I can't walk fast in these sandals."

Hearing her whine, I slowed down, matching her pace. Had I upset her again?

But then—her hand slipped under my arm, clinging to me.

Had her anger faded? Or had she never been angry at all?

Here, kissing or hugging was normal. But touching under a skirt, pulling down underwear—that wasn't acceptable. Not even in open-minded America.

Others might see light physical contact as natural between lovers. But what I'd done? Unforgivable.

I'd been lost in ecstasy, gone too far. Emma, as a woman, had no choice but to stop me.

Realizing that, I gathered courage. I freed my arm from hers and instead wrapped it firmly around her waist.

She leaned deeper into me, walking closer.

I felt the sharp dip of her waist between her torso and hips—slim, no fat, perfectly curved.

Dinner time approached. We entered a café near the start of the pier. These places were overpriced, food mediocre—people came for the atmosphere. But I couldn't think of anywhere better to ease the lingering tension.

Seated by the seaside window, guided by the waiter, she gave me an apologetic look, grabbed her purse, and headed to the restroom.

Only then did I notice it—the waxy, candle-like sensation on my lips. The faint scent of wax.

No mirror, but I pulled out a tissue and wiped my mouth.

It came away stained—a pulsing, deep maroon. In the dim light, the red looked almost alive. That's when I understood—why she'd turned away earlier, frantically fixing her lips. Had she been angry? The thought chilled me.

Ten minutes passed before she returned, smiling.

Her lipstick was reapplied. Perfect. Just as it had been before our first kiss.

"Sorry to keep you waiting."

"Well… it was kind of long…"

"Women have more things to fix, more little irritations. Earlier, on the pier—you said I looked like a woman to you, right?"

I honestly didn't remember saying that. But the fact that she remembered—maybe that's because, for the first time, I'd truly seen her as a woman.

We clinked glasses—tequila mixed with fruit—and began eating the small plates served as both meal and snack.

"It feels so good talking to you, David. Being able to speak freely like this…"

"Oh, is it really that great?"

She suddenly downed the rest of her half-full glass. Tequila cocktails weren't meant to be gulped—they were for savoring. She knew that.

"You remember I'm from New York? My in-laws are wealthy, respectable people. But they expect me to be a traditional Korean daughter-in-law. A traditional wife."

"But they raised their only son completely American. Then they take out their disappointment about his individualism… on me. That's why I pushed my husband to move out here—to the West Coast."

Her complaints began again. But this time, fueled by alcohol and the unfamiliar setting, they ran deeper.

"Since moving here, I've escaped their direct influence. Felt free. But my husband hates it—no skyscrapers, nowhere to walk. Feels trapped. And with my in-laws far away, he indulges himself more. That's why I started working at the bank."

To me, it sounded like privileged whining. Her husband's parents had bought their home. Objectively, she lacked for nothing. But my role wasn't to judge. Just to listen.

"When I first met my husband, I thought he was cute. His broken Korean—sweet, babyish. But then he'd switch to flawless, polished English with foreigners—I was stunned. He's honest, hardworking. Typical conservative. But… he doesn't feel like a real man. A pillar."

"A pillar? You said he earns a lot."

"David… do you really not understand what I mean? It's so frustrating. You really don't get women at all. Can you order me another cocktail?"

Instead of answering, she looked exasperated, gave up, and ordered another drink herself.

Was my question wrong? I think she'd told me this same story two or three times already.

She stared into my eyes. Like she was about to confess something huge.

Then—unexpectedly—

"David. Come closer for a sec. Stick your chin out."

I closed my eyes, tilted my jaw forward.

Maybe she was going to kiss me again…

But the sensation on my lips wasn't a kiss. It was rough—tissue scrubbing hard.

I opened my eyes in shock.

She was wiping my mouth like a mother cleaning a dirty child. Erasing every trace of her lipstick.

"David… you really said you've never dated a woman. Now I actually believe you."

I felt strangely unsettled—treated with maternal tenderness.

"But at least you're a man, so you get this kind of service. You know I spent ages in the bathroom earlier? Reapplying my lip makeup too."

"Oh… sorry. Then next time, I'll be more careful…"

"Don't say that, David. Just remember this—women need consideration. Things like protecting them in public. That kind of thing."

When we left the café, I'd finished two cocktails. She'd had three. It was 10 p.m.

I went to the restroom, then waited outside the women's room like a bodyguard.

When Emma emerged, she grinned widely and hooked her arm through mine.

Even at ten, the holiday heat drew crowds. We walked back along the pier, to the spot where things had gotten tense earlier. Her head rested fully on my shoulder. My hand gripped her smooth waist.

I felt bold. Fearless. No anxiety about her husband in New York watching us.

I turned to her, cupped her chin.

She quickly turned away.

This time, I held tighter—my hand wrapping around her left jaw, her neck.

But she shook her head, then lowered it deeply.

"Emma. Emmay a."

"What? What do you want to say to me? Now?"

If she'd truly wanted to escape, she wouldn't have just turned her head—she'd have pulled away. But she stayed. And when I tried to talk, she listened seriously. She wanted to hear something—something reckless, maybe.

"Emma. When I first emailed you, I had a feeling. And from the moment I saw you again… I've loved you."

"Really?"

"You've said yourself—I can't lie well. I'll always protect you. Love you."

Then, for the first time, without my help, she lifted her head—high, steady. Closed her eyes. And ever so slightly—parted her lips.

We kissed again—passionate, deep.

My right hand slipped under her skirt, searching for her panties. I kept checking the line, tracing it. I sucked her lower lip into my mouth, drinking her saliva.

Again, I felt her hot breath. A muffled moan, suppressed.

Her soft, rubber-balloon breasts pressed against my flat, hardened chest, playful, needy.

I learned how much energy kissing takes. When our lips finally parted, her eyes sparkled.

"You're so beautiful, Emma… under this moonlight…"

"Must be the makeup… Anyway, thank you."

"Emma. You won't wash off your makeup before sleeping, will you?"

Why did I say that? I don't know. Some kind of fetish?

"What??"

"I don't want the effort you made for me… to disappear even when you sleep!"

"??… That's just stubborn… I don't know!"

I hadn't planned to sleep with her. Not tonight. Not even a kiss was intended. But after I said that, as we walked, she leaned her entire upper body against me—completely.