Chapter 1 — Friend or Lover?

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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I first met her about ten years ago.

It had been roughly two years since I'd broken up with my girlfriend after getting out of the military and returning to school.

I was desperate to find a new girlfriend.

And then, by chance, I met her at a nightclub with a friend. We were the same age.

She worked at a branch of a major corporation.

After that first meeting, I chased after her relentlessly—but the number of times she stood me up was too many to count on one hand. (I was practically an idiot about it.)

I tried so hard. I wanted her to be mine. I got her drunk enough that she couldn't think straight and even took her to motels a few times, but she would scream and cry every single time.

My cock was denied at her doorstep more times than I could bear to remember. (Poor thing.)

After a full year of chasing her, I gave up and decided we'd just stay friends. But then suddenly, one day, she told me we should get married.

So I said to her,
“Are you kidding me? Marriage? I'm so sick of chasing you. I can't take it anymore. Let's just stay friends.”

(Later I found out she'd actually been serious.)

And just like that, she quickly married someone else. (Though to be honest, I already had another woman at the time. Hehehe.)

After that, we both moved on, living separate lives without thinking much of each other.

But our story wasn't over.

About seven years passed. By then, she had a husband. I had a wife.

One weekend morning, I was tidying up at home when I came across an old notebook. Flipping through it, I found her old home and office phone numbers.

I laughed, memories flooding back—but I never imagined I'd see her again.

Later that day, just like any ordinary weekend afternoon, I went shopping with my wife at the local plaza near our apartment.

Then I saw two women walking toward us—looked like a mother and daughter. But their faces were familiar.

It was her. And her mother.

We were both stunned. I'd met her mother a few times back when I was chasing her, so I greeted her politely.

She told me she'd been coming to this neighborhood for shopping because her family had moved nearby three years ago—close to where I lived.

But she was with her mother, and I was with my wife, so we couldn't talk much.

Still, I secretly got her number before we parted.

After that, I thought a lot. Was it right to call her? Was it wrong?

I could've just called to catch up, to exchange life stories, and leave it at that. But knowing my own nature—and knowing she was now a married woman—it felt impossible.

After days of hesitation, I called first.

Her voice came through, muffled by the sounds of harvest season. She sounded shocked—said she never expected I'd call.

Then she whispered that her husband was home, and she'd call me back shortly.

I hung up and waited about ten minutes—then my phone rang.

I couldn't speak when I answered. I hadn't really believed she'd call back. Then, after a long silence, her voice came through.

“You know, when I saw you earlier… your wife is really pretty. You two doing well?”

“Your mom still looks healthy. Yeah, I'm married. We're doing fine.”

“Yeah. I have one daughter. She's in kindergarten now. But… do you remember that time? When we promised to meet the first time it snowed?”

Huh? What was she talking about? When had we ever made that promise? I was still trying to remember when her voice came again through the receiver.

“Don't you remember? Back when we were dating—we said that even if we ended up marrying other people, we'd meet just once, the first snowfall, at the mountain pass. Remember?”

In that moment, I realized—she'd never forgotten me.

So I asked, “Where do you live now?”

She lived just over an hour away by car.

I'd always imagined she'd married well, living comfortably. But the address she gave wasn't in a wealthy area. The apartment complex wasn't well-known. It didn't look like she was doing so great after all.

Then, a moment later, she said,
“I've really wanted to see you. Just once. Could we meet?”

I told her I'd wanted to see her too, and suggested we meet sometime.

She said, “Come to my place next week. In the morning.”

In the afternoon, her daughter would be back from kindergarten, so she wanted to meet before then.

I agreed, hung up, and lit a cigarette.

I couldn't believe it.

Me—going to see her? Going to her house? What was I supposed to do there?

And then the day came.

At the time, I ran my own business, so I could set my own hours. I called the office and told my employee I had something to do in the morning and might not come in until afternoon.

Then I drove toward her place.

Her apartment building was shabbier than I'd expected. I'd lived in a newly built complex since my marriage, and seeing her run-down place tugged at my heart.

I climbed the stairs to the unit she'd described, pressed the doorbell.

“Who is it?” her voice came through.

I didn't answer. I just stood there.

She must've recognized me, because she opened the door.

“Come in. It's a bit shabby, huh? Just sit for a sec. I'll change clothes. Let's go out and eat something nice. You owe me a good meal today.”

Compared to before, her face looked older—but her voice was exactly the same.

I heard rustling as she changed clothes. Then the door opened, and she stepped out.

Holy shit.

She was wearing the blue dress I'd bought her years ago.

“You remember this? You gave it to me. Do you remember?”

“Of course I do.”

Seeing her in that dress erased everything.

I forgot I was married. I forgot she belonged to another man.

I walked over and gently pulled her into my arms. I hugged her like a greeting, asking if she'd been okay all these years.

She buried her face in my shoulder and whispered, “Yeah.”

Maybe I still remembered her scent. I held her tighter.

Then she raised her hands, stroking my hair, whispering, “I missed you.”

I lifted her suddenly, carried her into the bedroom—the room where she and her husband must have slept every night.

I laid her on the bed.

She whispered, “We shouldn't do this. You have your wife. I have…”

I didn't care.

I only wanted her.

I climbed on top of her and kissed her gently.

At first she resisted. Then her lips parted slightly—then eagerly, her tongue meeting mine.

I grew bolder, placing my hand on her breast.

Her full, firm breasts rose under my touch.

As soon as I touched them, she gasped—“Ah…”

She must've felt my hard cock pressing against her. She trembled, then pulled me closer.

Without a word, I boldly lifted her dress.

Underneath, white translucent panties with floral patterns. Through them, I saw her dark red pubic hair.

(Back when we dated, this was usually the point where she'd start crying, and I'd leave in tears, defeated. How stupid I'd been.)

I brought my mouth to her panties, licking through the fabric until they were soaked.

Her white panties clung wetly to her, revealing the dark patch beneath. I couldn't hold back anymore. I pulled them off and began to lick her pussy in earnest.

Every time my tongue touched her sensitive spot, her body jerked.

But she made no sound. Maybe she was ashamed of moaning.

But that didn't last.

Under my relentless attention, she began to cry out—“Ah~ Ah~ Ah~”

With one hand on her wet slit, I lifted my head and looked at her.

Her eyes were closed, lost in the pleasure I was giving her.

I lifted her head with one hand, pulled the dress over her head and off.

Her dusky skin. Her body—slim, not a single ounce of fat, like a young woman in her twenties. I couldn't help but marvel.

I stripped off my own clothes.

And then, finally, we began to truly explore each other's bodies.

I lifted her—light despite her height—onto my knees.

And we kissed.