Chapter 3 — My Fetish Experience - Part 1 (3)

My phone blared loudly. I was still half-asleep.

It was the notification sound for a new email, but today it felt especially jarring, like noise rather than a signal.

I rubbed my eyes groggily and checked the message.

It was from an unknown sender—an unfamiliar name, no context.

I turned on my computer and opened the email again. My inbox was flooded with messages from all over.

One in particular caught my eye—a message that stood out for its blunt interest in fetishes.

Unlike the others, this one specifically mentioned an obsession with panties.

They didn’t know me well, but enough—disturbingly so—to suggest they had some idea of who I was.

How could they possibly know me?

I’d signed up for countless adult sites over the years, so I couldn’t pinpoint where this came from.

Some might assume I was a total slut because of that, but that wasn’t true. I was open about a few things, but I wasn’t reckless.

The man’s message was simple: if I was willing to sell him the panties I was currently wearing, he’d buy them.

It was absurd—but not entirely shocking, given I’d had underwear stolen from me before.

What made it even more bizarre was his request to include a photo.

Selling the panties was one thing, but a photo? Even if I cropped out my face, how was I supposed to take that? Where? How?

After some hesitation, I replied: It’d be difficult to send a photo.

His reply came fast: Then how can I know they’re really yours? How do I know they’re not just some trash bag find?

I felt a quiet anger rise. If he didn’t like it, he could just back off.

A few days later, another message arrived from the same man. He still wanted the panties—offered 80,000 won. He told me to seal them tightly in a ziplock bag and ship them.

Seemed like easy money. I told him to send the payment first and gave him my account number.

Then another message popped up—someone else this time. Wanted to buy both panties and stockings. But the panties had to be worn for a full week. Crazy bastard.

I cursed under my breath. Who the hell wears the same panties for a week? Wouldn’t their pussy rot off?

Another guy wanted stockings too—but insisted on meeting in person so I could take them off for him.

Again, crazy bastard. I spat the words out.

But… I hesitated.

Because he promised cash—as much as you want.

OO Riverbank. OOO vehicle.

I thought about it for hours. Days. Then finally, I replied.

150,000 won in cash. No other conditions.

A few days later, I met him.

I was terrified—couldn’t shake the fear—so I brought a friend.

I told them to wait nearby, close to the car. If anything happens, run over immediately.

I approached the vehicle, knocked on the door, and raised my thumb as instructed.

He nodded. That’s you.

The door opened. I got in and sat down.

He looked at me, smiled with quiet satisfaction, and opened his wallet.

Pulled out the money—already counted. 150,000 won, handed over in one smooth motion.

I confirmed the amount, then struggled to keep my skirt from riding up as I rolled the stockings down.

As the fabric coiled down over my thighs, he reached over and stroked my leg.

His hand moved so fast—I didn’t even react in time.

I flinched, shoved him away, and fumbled for the door handle.

He panicked, grabbing my wrist.

"Okay, okay! I won’t! Just give me the stockings."

I glared at him, then finished peeling them off in silence.

He looked at me, voice low.

"How much for sex?"

"If I’m in the mood, I might give it for free. But I don’t sell my body."

I opened the door and stepped out. Slammed it shut behind me—hard.

Did he know I was furious? He didn’t follow. Didn’t say another word. Just drove off.

I walked over to my friend, who stood frozen, stunned.

"Let’s grab a shot of soju," I said, hooking my arm through theirs and pulling them along.

The winter wind was biting cold—perfect weather for soju.

The street stall was packed with customers. For a moment, I wondered—maybe I should try this kind of business myself.

I warmed my shaking hands with a hot bowl of fish cake broth before sitting down.

I ordered my usual—spicy chicken stir-fry. This place made it better than anywhere else. Perfect for my taste—spicy, bold. I loved the heat.

I hate green peppers. I crave red ones—red chili, they call them. Sometimes called bird's eye chili.

In summer, I love eating red chili dipped in soybean paste with rice.

My friend and I knocked back one, then two shots of soju.

Just as the warmth started to blur the edges, I noticed eyes on us.

Across the way, a group of men stared, practically drooling.

"Hey," I whispered to my friend."Wanna mess with those guys tonight?"

They looked at me and smiled faintly.

"Yeah. I’ve been feeling kind of down today."

They raised their glass, cool and composed, and drained it in one smooth motion.