Chapter 1 — I Need Constant Thrusting to Heal

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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Because of her short stature, I hesitated every time we met—wondering how life could ever work with someone like her—and kept letting her go. But she insisted on meeting me, even if just as far as Cheonan.

Three years since I started cheating, and now my business has collapsed, leaving me penniless. The women who once lined up for me one by one began disappearing, finding their own paths, until I was reduced to begging my wife for living expenses.

She hasn’t asked for divorce because of the child I’m raising, but her eyes silently beg me to leave.

I should be grateful she’s stayed with me this long—despite my infidelity and lack of means. Before she finally casts me aside, I ought to leave on my own. And if my long-suffering wife wants divorce, I should part from her with joy, bless her happiness, and walk away.

I tell myself it’s my fault for losing control and chasing fleeting pleasures. But with a child already and still overflowing energy, maybe I need to remarry.

I live in a small town. Known as a notorious womanizer, broke, with a child in tow—no one would take me seriously. Any woman still interested probably sees me as nothing more than a usable object.

Maybe I should search nationwide for someone rich, sex-hungry, and compatible.

So I posted an ad in personal ads in magazines, on correspondence columns, seeking remarriage. Soon, women began writing. I met several.

Some had kids from previous marriages—I liked them. Others were childless, but their personalities or looks didn’t appeal. Whenever I met someone promising, old memories of my ex-wife would resurface.

Then there’s her—the one who treats me like a husband.

Only her short height bothers me. I suppress my arousal and let her go a few times, but on her days off, she shows up with gifts.

She steps out of the car. The moment she sees me, she beams, rushing toward me, ecstatic.

But I’m numb to affection, obsessed only with sex.

My eyes lock onto the gift bundle in her hand.

She grabs my arm, linking it with hers. She knows I’m broke, yet says:

“Don’t you need anything? Let’s go shopping!”

She drags me through department stores and underground markets, careful not to hurt my pride.

“How about this? That one looks nice.”

Watching my expression, she pays first. After shopping:

“Honey, aren’t you hungry? I’m starving. Let’s eat.”

Over dinner, she drinks, pretends to get drunk—clearly planning to stay the night.

Damn me. I can’t believe I ever doubted frogs could turn into men. Thanks to correspondence columns, remarriage prospects keep appearing.

Maybe I’ll finally meet someone perfect. But if I don’t like her height from the start, I should reject her immediately.

Now I’ve become a shameless man—accepting gifts, then sending her away.

Tonight, escape feels impossible.

After dinner, she stumbles, claiming she’s too drunk to walk. She points to a motel, suggesting we rest.

I know better—messing with a naive, tender-hearted woman could backfire badly.

But as the saying goes: a hungry ghost doesn’t care how it’s fed. Hahaha.

How can I refuse a free meal?

Inside the motel room, the widow burns like molten lava—drunk on alcohol and desire.

She throws herself into my arms, kissing wildly, pressing her body against mine.

Deep down, I’ve been craving this electric thrill, suppressing it for so long.

I lift her suddenly, lay her on the bed, rip off her blouse, caress her breasts, tear off her bra.

I yank down her pants, rub her clitoris, pull off her panties—she’s been waiting.

Her hips buck.

“Ah… Ah…”

Her milky-white skin, perfectly proportioned features. The way she sinks into my arms—so satisfying.

Her small frame is the only flaw. But stripped bare, she has a beautiful body.

I lick and suck her modest but perfect breasts, one hand still stroking her clitoris.

I trail down with my tongue, licking every inch of her trembling body.

“Ah… Ah…”

She writhes like a freshly caught fish, arching like a bow.

“Ah… Ah…”

I rub her clitoris, slide a finger inside, massage her G-spot.

“Ah… Too good… Baby, I’m going crazy.”

She grips the bedsheet, moaning desperately, trying to pull me on top of her.

But I stay beneath her, licking her pussy, refusing to rise.

“Ah… You’re mine… Ah… Ah… Ah…”

She crawls up, offering a 69. She takes my cock into her mouth, sucking like a lollipop, swirling her tongue.

“Ah… Ah…”

Even with my cock stuffed in her mouth, her moans are loud, guttural. How can such a small body produce such cries?

The louder she moans, the more I love it.

I switch positions, rub my cock against her soaked slit.

“Ah… I’m going crazy… Baby… Ah… Ah…”

She bucks her hips, grinding against my cock, trying to guide it in.

When it doesn’t go smoothly, she reaches down, grabs my cock, tries to push it in.

But her small frame makes it awkward.

I shift her sideways, grip my cock, aim for her entrance.

“Ah… Put it in.”

I lower myself, lick her clitoris, get my cock hard again.

I smear her wetness and my pre-cum all over it, rub the tip against her slit, widen the opening with my glans.

“Ah… Put it in me.”

I stretch her a little more, savoring the tease—then try to enter.

But she lifts her upper body, wraps her arms around my hips, spreads her legs, lifts them.

She pulls her knees together, pressing her pussy against my hips—such a provocative move.

I can’t hold back.

I pull her close, thrust my hips forward—my cock forces past her threshold.

“Ah!! Ah!! Ouch!! Aaahh!!”

She jerks like a fish just pulled from water.

She curls up, screaming in agony, as if being torn apart.

I freeze—my cock buried past her entrance, tightly gripped.

I look at her—her hands clutch my hips, pulling me deeper.

Her face, once flushed like a radish, now turns deathly pale.

Sweat beads on her forehead.

Tears stream from her tightly shut eyes.

I regret using my cock on a woman who said she’d never been pregnant.

But it’s too late—like waving for a ride after the bus has left.

Her pained moans only excite me more.

She lies under me, paralyzed, holding me still.

“Does it hurt… a lot?”

She opens her tear-filled eyes.

“Yes… I can’t bear it.”

“Should we stop?”

She says nothing, eyes still closed.

“Should we… stop?”

I hold her hips.

“Just… stay. Stay still.”

What man would pull out his cock, buried inside, without cumming?

Her telling me to stay still feels like a blessing.

My cock rests at her entrance.

Even without moving, it twitches inside her.

“Ah! Don’t move! It hurts. Stay still. Don’t move!”

There should be a gap between my cock and her walls for lubrication to work.

But her pussy clamps down like a vise—tight around my shaft. My arousal surges uncontrollably.

I try to spread pre-cum along the half-embedded shaft, but even that slight motion—

“Ah! Don’t move! It hurts. Ah…”

Just breathing deeply excites me.

“It hurts… Too much… Stay still… Ah…”

My cock—maybe it’s twisted—twitches inside her, even as she cries in pain.

My excitement spirals out of control.

I need to cum to calm down, to regain composure.

I can’t just leave it buried.

Better to endure the pain quickly.

I start small up-and-down motions.

“Ah! Don’t! Ah! Don’t! Ah… hu… hur…”

She pushes her chest out.

“Ah! Don’t move! Ah… Too painful…”

After a few thrusts, I cum.

Her pained cries stop.

Warm cum floods deep inside her, slick and sticky.

It coats my cock, easing the friction.

Even as my spent cock twitches slightly—

“Ah… Ah…”

She no longer cries in pain. Instead, she hugs me, content.

But her eyes show fear—will I move again?

“I’m sorry!!!”

She’s apologizing? Me? Haha.

I savor the soft grip of her pussy, then pull out.

“It hurts… Ah… Slowly… Ah…”

I hand her a towel to cover her dripping pussy. It gapes open—like a hollow cave where my cock just pounded.

I lie beside her, stroke her hair, kiss her.

She smiles as if nothing happened.

Her sweaty body presses into my arms. I caress her soft breasts, overwhelmed by post-orgasmic emptiness, and fall asleep.

How long have I slept?

I wake, aware of her hand—soft, stroking my cock, her fingers trailing over my chest and back.

My cock, touched by her hand, twitches back to life.

I feel her hand spasm around it.

Her smiling face turns fearful.

“I’ll stop.”

Relieved I won’t continue, she buries her face in my chest, clinging to me.

I whisper into her ear, her hair tickling my nose: “You’ll be okay from now on.”

But the tickling makes me sneeze.

“From now on… achoo!…in… achoo!…you’ll be okay.”

She thinks I said we won’t have sex again.

She stiffens.

“No, it’s okay!! I’ll endure! I’m sorry!”

She grabs my cock again, dives under the blanket.

She caresses my chest with her hands and tongue, moving down.

When her mouth can’t fit my cock, she licks instead.

“You do whatever you want. I’ll endure.”

I don’t understand why she suddenly changed—only realizing too late that she misunderstood my words.

Could she be faking pain?

Does she always moan like this?

Her licking slowly reignites my suppressed desire.

I pull her up, caress her breasts, then lift the towel covering her pussy.

Wait—on the white towel, pink stains.

I rub her clitoris, look closer.

Blood.

Is it her period? Could it be?

But she said she wasn’t pregnant. No, it can’t be.

I caress her breasts, rub my cock against her pussy—her face twists in pain again.

I should’ve used a condom earlier. But now, slick with her wetness and arousal, I carefully push in.

“Ugh…” she groans.

“It hurts… Ah… Ah…”

I start small thrusts.

No more cries of pain.

“Ah… Ah…”

Her wetness flows, coating my cock, her pussy softening, welcoming.

I caress her breasts, thrust faster—her hips buck.

“Ah… Ah… Too good… Ah…”

Her juices, mixing with mine, lubricate smoothly. Her hips rise.

“Ah… Ah… I’m going crazy… Ah… Too good…”

Far better than before. I revel in the tight, clinging sensation.

Matching her second orgasm, I cum again.

“Ah… Ah…”

She hugs me, legs tightening, shivers, then smiles brightly.

I lie on top of her for a long time, savoring the softness of her breasts, the milky smoothness of her skin.

Only when my softening cock slips out, trailing cum, do I finally rise.

She lies there, smiling contentedly.

I help her up, lead her to the bathroom.

I soap her milky, soft skin, wash her gently.

As I dry her off—

“Wait—what’s this? Blood?”

I lay her beside me, caress her breasts.

She nestles into me, grabs my cock.

“If you don’t keep doing it, won’t it hurt more? Do it again and again. Haha.”