Chapter 1 — Her Colleague at Work

It had already been five years since our wedding.

I worked at a company, and my wife ran her own shop.

Our married life wasn't particularly exciting, but it wasn't unbearable either.
My days simply passed by—ordinary, predictable, quiet.

Then one day, she contacted me—the woman I'd dated before marriage.

We had been together seriously, with marriage in mind, for over a year before breaking up.
There were countless reasons why we split, but what I remembered most vividly—what sometimes crept into my thoughts late at night—was how incredible the sex had been.

We met again. And then, we slept together again.

Now, though not often, we see each other once or twice a month—just enough to share a drink and slip into a motel room.

My office is in Jongno, hers in Gangnam, yet we always meet in Jongno.
Partly because it's more convenient for me—but also because I enjoy the thrill of drinking in a crowded area, slipping into a love motel like shadows in plain sight.

And she, who lives near Yeonsidae, doesn't mind meeting here either.

Today, we made plans to meet in Insadong.
Right now, I'm sitting in a small bar, waiting for her.

Just as I lit a cigarette, I saw her walk in from across the room.

She flashed a bright smile, waved, and strode confidently toward me.

"Did you wait long?"

"Nah, I just got here too."

With her, time feels like it reverses. Everything flows so naturally. It's almost funny.

We order soju and some light snacks.

She barely drinks—so I end up finishing most of the bottle myself.

Drinking alone isn't fun.

While she talks about a movie she recently watched, her phone rings. I down another shot of soju.

The call drags on. I decide to use the restroom.

A few minutes later, returning from the bathroom, I find her silent, staring blankly out the window.

When I sit back down, she gives me an awkward look and starts explaining.

An older colleague from her previous job—someone she used to work with—had called. When she mentioned she was in Insadong, the woman said she was nearby too, and asked if she could join us.

Honestly, given the nature of our relationship, I wasn't thrilled.
But she insisted—just introduce me as a former coworker. So I agreed.

She calls the woman back, and we agree to move to a nearby bar.

As we leave the first place and walk, she tells me the woman—a divorcée—is kind-hearted, easygoing. She divorced about a year ago, and I should feel comfortable around her.

We arrive at the bar and take seats at the counter.

Soon after, the divorcée arrives.

Like any typical women's reunion, they chat animatedly for a while before finally introducing me.

She doesn't look young, exactly—but her legs are bold and bare, her figure undeniably voluptuous beneath her tight dress.

We sit in a row—me, her, then the divorcée—at the curved bar counter. We order a bottle of tequila.

She and the divorcée seem to have endless things to talk about.
By the time the divorcée's glass empties, I'm left playing bartender, refilling her drink like it's my only role.

Then her phone rings again.

She answers urgently, listens, then hangs up quickly.
She looks between me and the divorcée, apologetic.

"It's my mom," she says."She's been battling cancer… and right now, her condition is serious. I think I need to go check on her."

What do you say to someone whose mother is dying?

When I offer to leave with her, she insists I stay.
"Just hang out a bit longer with her. I'll be fine."

I feel awkward—but the divorcée doesn't hesitate.
"Go, go," she urges, waving her off. "Take care of your mom."

Left alone with the divorcée, we start talking.

Turns out, she can drink. Two-thirds of the tequila bottle disappears in no time.

I compliment her—tell her she has great style, that she doesn't look like a divorcee at all.

She giggles, tossing her hair. "Not what you expected, huh?"

The alcohol loosens us. Our conversation grows livelier, flirtier.

I confess I'm married.
And soon, our talk slips into the kind of risqué banter adults indulge in when inhibition fades.

Through the gap in her white blouse, I catch a glimpse of her breast.

Eventually, the topic turns to sex.

I ask her—do you prefer giving or receiving oral?

She smiles, eyes glinting. "Both are good… but I definitely enjoy receiving more."

By the time the tequila bottle is nearly empty, I suggest another round.

She leans in. "I've got an officetel nearby. Let's continue there."

Is it the alcohol dulling my judgment? Or is she deliberately seducing me?

Either way, I play along.

"How about this," I say, grinning. "We play a game. Loser gives the winner oral."

Her eyes gleam with mischief. She smiles—slow, knowing—and nods.

At her officetel, she excuses herself to change clothes.

A moment later, she returns wearing pink sweatpants and a matching top, her toned ass perfectly framed by the snug fabric.

"For nights like this," she says, pulling out a bottle of Johnnie Walker. "I keep this ready."

We sit on the sofa, pouring drinks for each other.

We'd already shared a bottle of tequila. Now, whiskey shots add fire to the warmth spreading through me.

She smells amazing.

Her hand brushes my thigh. In response, I sweep her hair behind her neck, bringing my lips close to her ear.

Just as I lean in to kiss her lips, she slides off the sofa, kneels in front of me, and unfastens my belt.

She pulls my pants down, then grips my cock through my underwear.

It's already fully hard—throbbing, eager for her mouth.

She tugs my underwear down, takes my shaft deep into her mouth in one smooth motion.

While she sucks me, I begin unbuttoning my shirt.

She shrugs off her sweatshirt, revealing a sports bra. One hand keeps working my cock, the other cups and squeezes her own breast.

I'm completely naked now, seated on the sofa, lost in the rhythm of her mouth.

After several long minutes, she stands, peels off her sweatpants and underwear together, then lifts the white tank top over her head, letting it fall. She unhooks her bra and lets it drop.

Naked, she returns to me, kneeling once more.

This time, she presses her large breasts against my cock, sliding them up and down in a soft, wet glide.

I reach out, cupping them, feeling their weight, their bounce.

Then, without warning, she climbs onto me, straddling my lap.

She guides my cock to her entrance and slowly sinks down.

Her moan fills the room—low, deep, trembling with pleasure.

---