Chapter 1 — My Record of Internal Ejaculation — The Pitiful Woman, Part 1 (1)

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 received a message from a woman I used to work with. She asked how I was doing and suggested we meet for dinner if I had time.

Counting on my fingers, I realized it had been three years since I last saw her.

Though we'd worked at the same company, she handled administrative tasks while I was in research. Unless I needed something from her office or we ran into each other at the cafeteria, our interactions were limited to passing greetings in the hallway.

But given the older demographics at our institute, it was easy to become friends with someone our age. Eventually, a small group of coworkers around our age started having lunch together regularly.

She and I naturally fell into the same circle—eating together, then walking around the neighborhood afterward.

Still, nothing romantic ever happened between us. We were strictly colleagues. We never met alone, and of course, we never socialized outside of work. At most, if our shifts ended at the same time, we'd join others for a casual drink.

I knew almost nothing about her personal life. As far as I remembered, the only thing I knew was that she'd been single for quite a while.

Ah, there was one exception—once, just the two of us had lunch.

Someone in our group had an emergency, so we ended up eating alone. It was nothing special—just ordinary conversation, a short walk to digest, then we parted ways back to our offices.

That was the kind of person she was. Which made her sudden message after three years all the more puzzling.

Was she getting married and wanted me to attend? Asking me to buy something? Or maybe—I've kept my precious feelings hidden all this time, but now I'll give them all to you?

But no. She said simply, "I just wanted to see you." According to her, she'd been feeling suffocated lately and wanted to drink—but when she thought of someone she could truly trust to drink with, I was the one who came to mind.

Still, wasn't it strange? Reaching out after three years like nothing had changed? I pressed her a little, and she replied, "Didn't you know? We live in neighboring neighborhoods."

I had no idea.

She hadn't changed at all. Her slightly plump face was the same, her wavy brown hair unchanged in color and style.

I joked that she looked even younger now. She waved her hand dismissively, saying she'd been under so much stress lately that she was aging rapidly.

I teased her, saying I should take a closer look to see just how much she'd aged. She responded by widening her eyes playfully and smiling at me.

Now that I thought about it, in my memory, she'd always worn formal office attire.

Because of the conservative workplace culture, I'd never seen her knees.

But the woman who met me for drinks that day was dressed in shorts—fitting the unseasonably hot early autumn.

Her legs, which I'd imagined based on her round face, were surprisingly pale and slender.

Perhaps it was those pale, delicate limbs that made her seem younger and prettier than I remembered.

When I asked what was bothering her, she said it was her boyfriend.

She thought she might end up marrying him—but she wasn't sure if he was truly right for her.

I asked what the problem was, but she only said she didn't know, offering no clear answer.

We both drank steadily. At the end of the night, she held out her hand for a handshake and said, "Next time we meet, let's speak casually. Use informal speech."

"We're the same age, and we live right next to each other."

I took her hand, letting her shake mine, and found myself wondering—I get that we're peers and can be informal, but why emphasize that we live in neighboring neighborhoods?

A few days later, she called me late at night. Her voice was slightly trembling, almost tearful, asking if I could come to her neighborhood if I was free.

My first reaction wasn't concern—it was disbelief. Why is she acting like this toward me?

Yes, we'd been close coworkers years ago. But we hadn't kept in touch for three years, and she had a boyfriend she might even marry.

What made it even more surreal was that I was in Jeju Island at the time—on what might later become the basis of a short story.

I'd just had sex with a younger woman I'd met there, and we were lying together, about to fall asleep, when the call came.

When I gave a negative reply, she said, "Then let's meet when you come back to Seoul. You're the only person I can trust."

And then, almost as if reading my thoughts, she added, "Honestly, I don't even know why I'm doing this to you," before hanging up.

There's no persuasion stronger than a woman's tears. Even setting aside the crying, being called "the only person I can trust" stirred a sense of duty I hadn't felt before.

The young woman beside me had woken up to the sound of my voice. She asked what was wrong, so I told her about my former coworker and how I didn't understand why she was acting this way.

She listened with her eyes closed, then murmured, "Maybe that older sister wants to sleep with you, boss."

Then she snuggled closer to me.

The night I returned to Seoul, I met her.

She looked as if she'd been crying nonstop since that phone call—her face dark with sorrow.

When she finally spoke, her first words caught me off guard: "Have you ever hit someone, Mr. Park?"

I had no idea what she was struggling with.

She said her boyfriend kept hitting her.

I thought I'd misheard. A man hitting a woman? Hitting someone he claimed to love?

Two storm clouds colliding inevitably bring thunder and lightning. And soon after, as if holding back for too long, the rain began to fall.

She didn't understand why she had to be the one getting hit. She hated that she couldn't break up with him. She cried for a long time.

Then, with a faint, bitter smile, she admitted she didn't know why she was telling me all this.

The abuse had escalated gradually. It started with shoving, then progressed to punches to the face.

Of course, she'd broken up with him multiple times. But each time, he'd kneel and beg for forgiveness, and out of pity, she'd taken him back.

And each time, the violence grew more frequent and severe.

She'd even considered calling the police. But then he threatened to leak videos and photos he'd taken of her.

They'd been together for just over two years—more than a year of which had been spent enduring abuse and threats.

She said this was the first time she'd ever told anyone about being beaten.

She hadn't been back home for three days.

After breaking up with him, he'd tracked her down every time she tried to return. She was too afraid even to turn on her phone, let alone go home.

I felt pity for her. Anger toward him. But my curiosity was elsewhere.

Why me? Did she want me to play the role of a new boyfriend—to finally leave him for good? Or did she want me to report him on her behalf?

It didn't seem like she was asking for advice on something obvious. When I asked how I could help, her answer surprised me completely.

She just wanted me to stay with her. Just until tomorrow morning, when she had to go to work.

It was hard enough for a woman to check into a motel alone, she said.

Until then, we'd been talking inside her car, with me sitting in the passenger seat. I insisted on driving and took the wheel from her.

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We checked in, but I couldn't help muttering, "I never thought I'd end up in a place like this with you."

She said the same—that she never imagined being here with me.

But despite our words, it didn't feel like this would end with just "staying together." We were both slightly aroused, and we were at an age where desire burned strong.

"Do you want to sleep with me?" I asked directly.

She didn't say yes or no. Her expression was unreadable.

Then, out of nowhere, she demanded I tell her a secret.

"A secret?" I asked, confused.

She pouted, insisting that since she'd just confessed her most shameful truth, I had to share one too.

It was childish logic, almost laughable—but I understood. She was using this to deflect her own embarrassment.

But I didn't have much to confess. I thought for a while, wondering what kind of secret might please her, then asked, "Do you remember Sarah Kim?"

When I shared part of the story involving Sarah, she was shocked. She never imagined such a relationship existed.

The first thing I noticed when I saw her naked was how pale she was.

Her skin wasn't just "white"—it was a whiteness beyond description, delicate and fragile.

I guessed it was the contrast with her plump face and full breasts, but her limbs were long and slender, making her look even more ethereal.

She didn't hesitate to show me her naked body or her most intimate parts. But when it came to touching mine, she hesitated—reaching out, then pulling back.

When I entered her deeply, her face twisted noticeably.

From that grimace, I realized her boyfriend had never satisfied her.

Our first time ended quicker than I'd expected—so fast it felt almost pathetic. I even apologized for how short it was.

But surprisingly, she was delighted. "I was happy. Really," she said.

When I asked why, she replied, "While we were having sex, I didn't think about my boyfriend at all."

"Ever since I was first hit, I kept thinking—He'll hit me again. I'll get hit again.
Even when I finally broke up with him, I kept worrying—When will he come to my house? When will he harass me at work?
But with you, none of that came to mind. The anxiety just… disappeared. It was really good."

I felt deep pity for her. It was 4 a.m.

I suggested we get some sleep before her morning shift, but she insisted I keep touching her.

Looking closely, I noticed her eyes were bloodshot.

She said she hadn't slept much since the breakup.

Strangely, she didn't feel tired—but I was worried nonetheless.

Soon, we had sex a second time. Unlike the rushed first round, this time I took my time—teasing, withdrawing, then plunging deep.

Watching her orgasm, I was certain her boyfriend had never brought her to this point.

Over and over, she gasped, "Die! Die! I'm going to die!"

Just as she wanted, I came deep inside her.

Even after, she kept calling my name, still caught in the afterglow. "I'm happy," she whispered, asking for kisses.

Before we checked out, we had a third time—and her reaction was the same.

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I began to suspect his violence stemmed from sexual insecurity.

Despite his good looks, he had an unusually small penis—so tiny it was almost cute.

She said he'd always needed toys during sex, except for the very first time they'd been together.

Whether due to that insecurity or genuine low libido, they'd only had sex about twice a month.

But she had a strong sex drive. Once they started, she wanted to keep going until she collapsed.

When I asked how she'd endured this for two years, she said she'd relied on masturbation.

She even had two vibrators—gifts from him.

But she emphasized: I was the first man she'd ever had sex with outside of a relationship.

The words of the young woman from Jeju resurfaced in my mind: "Maybe that older sister wants to sleep with you, boss."

I asked her why it had to be me.

Her answer was simple. "We're the same age. And we live right next to each other."

It took me a while to realize she wanted more than a one-time encounter.

Our night together wasn't the end.

We parted at the motel in the morning, only to meet again after work that day.

As we walked through the coffee street in Bojeong-dong, she said:

"When you told me you were in Jeju, that moment was actually the peak. If you'd said you'd never come back to Seoul… I might've grabbed anyone and had a one-night stand that day."

"Was it revenge against your boyfriend? Then it wouldn't have mattered who I was, right?"

I asked, slightly hurt.

She found my reaction cute. She laced her fingers with mine, then pulled me into a kiss.

"No, it's not that."

She smiled warmly, hooked her arm through mine, and leaned into me. To an outsider, we'd look like lovers in a drama.

That night, I let her stay at my place.

I currently live with my mother, but she'd gone on a volunteer trip to the countryside for a few days, so it was possible.

I was worried about her clothes. She'd brought a small bag when she left home, but it wasn't enough for several days of rotating outfits.

She was worried too. We started the washing machine right away.

I offered to help, but she stubbornly refused—she didn't want me to see her stained underwear.

I found some old clothes my married older sister had worn as a single woman. They weren't perfect, but they fit well enough.

We had a simple dinner, then sat side by side watching TV, and I thought:

Just yesterday, she was merely an "acquaintance"—a small, distant figure in my memory.

But in less than a day, she'd become someone who shared my bed, stayed in my home, and now lay on the couch, curled in my arms.

Life is truly unpredictable. Especially relationships between men and women.