(Hot Erotic Fiction) There's No Emergency Exit

It was still June, but the weather was sweltering as if it were midsummer.

I felt burdened by the long-sleeved shirt I’d worn that morning and headed straight back to the boarding house.

According to the schedule, I should’ve attended another two-hour mandatory liberal arts lecture, but it had been canceled due to the professor’s personal circumstances.

“Ajumma, it’s Hyunbok.”

I shouted into the intercom after pressing the doorbell.

The landlady was unusually fearful and cautious, always locking the front gate tightly.

It made sense—she’d started housing male students because she was afraid of being alone in an empty house.

Her husband ran a small construction company and was constantly traveling to job sites around the country, so he was hardly ever home.

It had been nearly three months since I moved in, but I’d only seen him a handful of times.

“Oh, student Hyunbok! What brings you here at this hour?”

The gate opened quickly, her voice unusually cheerful.

“Yes, my class was canceled, so I finished early.”

I answered apologetically as I locked the gate behind me, feeling guilty for interrupting her rare moment of rest.

“Canceled? Then maybe the other students will come back too?”

She still had rubber gloves on, her hands covered in soapy suds from doing laundry.

“No, no. Only our physical education department was canceled. Other departments are holding classes as usual.”

“Oh? Then I don’t need to prepare extra lunch?”

She smiled with obvious relief and headed into the bathroom.

Lunch wasn’t included in the boarding agreement. Yet, whenever a student came back at mealtime, she always made sure to serve them a full meal.

She said it was because students who came from far away shouldn’t have poor meals.

That kind of generosity was unheard of at most boarding houses.

Most university-area boarding houses, though small in scale, were essentially profit-driven businesses.

The owners spent their days figuring out how to cut food and side dish costs, and if a student’s friend ever visited around mealtime,

they’d usually make it clear they weren’t welcome to eat.

But our landlady was different. She went out of her way to prepare lunch even though it wasn’t required, often shopping at the market just to feed us.

If a friend came by, she’d insist they stay and eat, pulling them in by the arm.

Laundry was the same. Most boarding houses would leave a single old washing machine in the bathroom or washroom and expect students to handle it themselves.

That was considered normal, even expected.

After all, even if you were a boarder, you were supposed to wash your own clothes.

Besides, it was actually kind of embarrassing to hand over your underwear or socks to someone else.

But our ajumma was different. After the students left for school, she’d search every room, collect all the hidden laundry, and wash it spotlessly clean.

Even clothes hanging on the wall—if they looked a little soiled—she’d take them down, wash them, and hang them back up.

“What does it matter? You’re all like my sons... Just think of me as your mom and don’t feel awkward.”

She’d say this repeatedly, comforting the boarders.

All of us felt deeply apologetic and touched by her constant care—cleaning, laundry, everything done by her own hands.

Then again, her only son had enlisted in the military after finishing his second year, so it was understandable she’d see students around his age as her own children.

No wonder all the boarders adored and respected her like a real mother—so much that students from other boarding houses envied us.

I myself had grown closer to her than I ever had to my own mother in less than a month.

She always spoke warmly, put visible effort into every meal, cleaned our rooms spotlessly when we were out, and even found and washed the underwear I’d hidden deep in my drawer.

How could anyone not feel more than just a landlord-tenant bond toward such a caring woman?

It would’ve been strange not to.

Even now, I blush when I recall the third day I moved in. It was all because of laundry.

After learning she cleaned the room daily, I started crumpling my underwear and hiding it deep in the drawer when I changed clothes in the morning.

There was a plastic basket she’d given us for laundry, but I couldn’t just toss it in there.

My underwear was soaked with the sticky remnants of youthful release from a dream the previous night.

The front was thoroughly wet, almost as if I’d wet myself, sticky and clinging, with a thick, sweet scent like blooming acacia flowers rising from it.

There was no way I could hand that to her without shame.

Even my biological mother was someone I wouldn’t want to catch me like that—let alone a woman who, no matter how motherly she acted, was still another person, and a woman at that.

So I’d hidden it deep in the drawer. But when I came home that evening, I froze in shock.

There it was—my very own underwear, unmistakably stained and damp, flapping openly on the clothesline.

I opened the drawer in disbelief, my face burning. It was definitely the same pair.

Any faint hope that someone else might’ve had identical underwear shattered, my heart pounding wildly.

I felt as embarrassed as if I’d been caught stealing.

Yet her attitude remained completely unchanged.

Whether she was simply indifferent by nature, fully understanding of such things, or genuinely unaware, she acted so calmly and normally that it was impossible to tell.

I ended up feeling even more awkward for being so self-conscious.

I still blush when I think about it. After that, I started sleeping without underwear—just in case it happened again.

I was a first-year college student, at the peak of youthful desire. Nocturnal emissions came every few days...

I couldn’t exactly carry my soiled underwear in my backpack because I didn’t want to hand it to her.

Washing it myself in the morning sink felt too awkward with other boarders around.

Rubbing my underwear in the sink first thing in the morning would be like openly announcing, ‘I had a wet dream last night.’

So I just stopped wearing underwear to bed—it was actually more comfortable that way.

I took off my long-sleeved shirt and changed into a short-sleeved one, then immediately flung the window wide open. Today, I’d clean the room myself instead of relying on her.

It was uncomfortable being a grown man constantly depending on the landlady.

I left the door wide open and began cleaning in earnest.

I pulled all the books from the shelf, dusted them off, arranged them neatly, and carefully organized the drawers.

After a quick cleanup, I stepped out to empty the trash can.

The ajumma had left her laundry mid-way. Maybe she’d gone to answer the phone? I turned my head toward the master bedroom.

And then I froze, startled.

The ajumma was changing clothes inside.

I didn’t know why she’d suddenly started changing, but through the slightly open door, I clearly saw her dazzlingly white buttocks.

I slowly turned my head back, then glanced again.

Gulp. I swallowed hard without thinking. It wasn’t like I meant to look...

I told myself it wasn’t intentional and replayed the image in my mind—the moon-like pale buttocks...

But then, an even more shocking sight awaited.

The ajumma was now completely naked, facing this direction.

Her head was turned away, but her bare breasts and the thick patch of hair between her legs were clearly visible.

'Damn... unbelievable...'

I felt dizzy, as if the room were spinning. I’d never seen a naked woman in real life before.

I’d seen far more explicit things online, but I had no actual experience with women.

Her breasts, large and swaying like melons, with nipples as red as melon stems...

Her waist and belly, soft and wrinkled like willow branches, yet plump and strangely sensual. Below, the dense, dark forest of hair...

I gulped again, unable to look away.

Deep within that thick, dark forest surely lay the secret of a woman’s