Chapter 2 — My Record of Internal Ejaculation — The Pitiful Woman, Part 1 (2)

A young, healthy man and woman living under one roof—of course, sex consumed every waking and sleeping hour.

I hadn't realized it when I first saw her, but the way she wore that Mickey Mouse short-sleeve T-shirt was unbearably sexy.

Still, we didn't just have sex in peace.

She was terrified of turning on her phone. Every time she powered it on, messages flooded in from her ex—threats, manipulations, emotional blackmail.

It always started with threats, then shifted to pleading: “I was wrong. Give me another chance.” And then, inevitably, back to threats.

The videos were his weapon. When I asked, she said they'd filmed each other about ten times. But she claimed they were deleted immediately, so nothing remained. As for photos, she said her face was never shown—no real problem there.

She called his video threats a last resort. “If he really had footage, he'd show it to me to scare me. He doesn't.”

But she was deeply afraid he'd come find her in person.

Once before, she'd disappeared completely, only for him to turn her apartment upside down so violently that police had to intervene. When she still refused to see him, he showed up at her workplace—leaving her no choice but to take him back.

Yet, while we were having sex, and even in the moments after, when we lay naked and tangled together, she said she could forget everything.

I knew I wasn't the ultimate solution, but whenever she wanted me, I gave her my body.

Over just three days of cohabitation, I heard her entire life story.

Three years of working at the same company hadn't revealed even a fraction of who she was—but in three days, her entire 33 years poured out. Sex, I realized, was an incredible USB port.

She was born and raised in Busan, but spent most of her school years in Japan, thanks to relatives living there. She studied college in Korea, but said the only time she lived with her parents was during those four university years.

Now that I thought about it, I'd never once seen her talk to them on the phone.

After graduation, she briefly lived with a boyfriend—a fitness guy who loved her deeply. For a while, she truly believed they'd get married.

But when he enlisted late, their feelings drifted. Then he found someone else, and it ended.

During our time as coworkers, she'd been single for quite a while. By then, she said, she'd already been hurt by several men and thought, “Maybe spending my life alone isn't so bad.”

When I asked how she handled her libido, she simply said: “When there's no man around, you just stop. It fades.”

She met her current boyfriend at a drinking party. He pursued her relentlessly for days, and before she knew it, her heart had opened.

But they didn't have sex for months—and she liked that. She appreciated the caution.

Until she discovered the real reason for his hesitation: a deep insecurity about his penis. She admitted she was honestly disappointed.

He must have sensed it—because right after their first time, he exploded at her.

She turned to me and asked, “Honestly, when people in their thirties start dating, don't they both know the other isn't their first?”

I nodded.

She sighed, staring blankly at the ceiling. “After we had sex, he turns to me and says, 'You weren't a virgin, were you?' I didn't see any reason to lie, so I said no—and then he started yelling at me.”

Playing along, I took her side.

She groaned, “He's not a virgin either, so what's his problem accusing me?”

Even setting aside her bias, the man's behavior and character showed serious flaws.

At first, it was just slamming walls or throwing things. Later, it escalated to direct violence.

And it wasn't just her—he'd pick fights with strangers on the street for no reason, even been to the police station. He once threw punches at his own father.

The fact that he was capable of such filial violence was shocking. But even more shocking was that he told her about it.

He even admitted he couldn't control himself once he started getting angry.

“He says it like, 'So you just have to crawl and stay out of my way.' It's ridiculous.”

“But why did you stay with him for so long?”

Her answer was one of the most frustrating I'd ever heard.

“Because he was pitiful. I thought, someone has to take this man in.”

Ah. The classic excuses of women in abusive relationships: “He's sweet when he's sober,” and “He's deeply wounded—I should be the one to heal him.”

Hearing her say that, I thought: the man is messed up, but this woman? She's hopeless too.

When her mother returned, she naturally moved back home.

I'd been worrying about her safety as her mother's return neared, but she must have sensed it—because she said, “I think I can go back now.”

The threatening messages that used to flood in every time she turned on her phone were fading. He wasn't showing up at her workplace like before. “He seems safer now,” she said.

But when it came time to actually go home, she hesitated. She begged me to spend just one more day with her at her place.

Well. I couldn't exactly say no.

I was afraid—what if some stranger grabbed her by the collar? And yes, we were sleeping together, but did I really owe her that much?

In the end, we spent the night at a motel and planned to go to her apartment the next morning. I picked her up from work, and she asked:

“Daniel Park, how many times do you think we've done it so far?”

I wondered what counted as one time. Penetration? Or ejaculation?

Truthfully, she was an intensely responsive woman. Our sex didn't follow a one-penetration, one-ejaculation rule.

Usually, she'd climax two or three times before I did, and each time, we'd pause—her body too sensitive for immediate re-entry.

After she came, her pussy would be so swollen and tender that forcing in would be impossible.

So while I came about twice a night, she'd already had five or six orgasms.

She said, by her count, we'd had sex two or three times that night—and she wanted to reach a hundred times with me.

“A hundred?”

“Yeah,” she said. “At least more times than I've had with my boyfriend.”

“And after we hit a hundred?”

“Then I'll break up with you.”

She said it so calmly. Wait—how could she so casually declare a breakup to someone she was sleeping with? Even if it was just physical, that kind of bluntness stung.

I stayed silent, gripping the steering wheel, hurt but unwilling to show it.

She either didn't notice or didn't care, and kept talking.

“I really like being with you, but I think if we do it too much, I'll get addicted. I won't be able to leave.”

Before I could decide if that was a compliment or not, she continued:

“We're not going to get married. You should find a girlfriend and be happy with her. That's normal, right?”

It was such a reasonable thing to say—there was nothing I could argue against.

We spent the night at the motel and waited for morning to go to her apartment.

A small unit in Gwangju, Gyeonggi Province. A bit big for a single woman, but the neighborhood was clean and seemed safe.

Most impressive was how tidy it was—everything perfectly organized, matching her sharp, polished appearance.

She finally looked relieved as she walked into the bedroom.

We'd shared our bodies for days, but stepping into her private space still felt awkward—until she called me in loudly. And once again, we had sex in her bed.

Out of curiosity, I asked to see her dildos. She pulled them out from right beside the bed.

“All gifts from him,” she said.

When she saw me off, she hugged me tightly around the neck.

“Any woman would fall for you, Daniel Park.”

Caught off guard by the sudden praise, I reflexively replied, “You're the kind any man would want. You should completely cut ties with that trash.”

She just said, “Yeah. I should.”

When I got home, I was surprised by how many traces of her remained. I'd told my mom I'd cleaned up carefully, but how can a child ever truly hide things from a parent?

“Did your sister come by?” she asked.

I panicked and played dumb. Then my sister called—asking if I'd brought a woman home.

According to her, my mom had called her. She was sure a woman had been in the house, but it didn't seem like her.

I was amazed by a mother's intuition.

When I told her this, she laughed. “My bed still smells like you.”

Anyway, life returned to normal.

But our arrangement didn't end there.

Though our lives grew slightly apart, we kept meeting—once during the week, once on weekends.

Each time we slept together, I couldn't help but think: “There's a woman who loves sex this much?” and “How had she suppressed this desire for so long?”

Beneath her prim exterior was an incredible sensuality, hidden in every curve.

She knew it too. She asked me things she'd never have dreamed of before—whether I found her look delicious enough to devour, or how her pussy ranked among all the ones I'd tasted—using crude words without hesitation.

And so, we both reached the same conclusion: You can never judge a person by their appearance.

Back when we were just coworkers, she'd thought of me as a pure, innocent man—someone too kind to hurt anyone, who wouldn't even jaywalk.

That was exactly why she'd reached out to me—because she trusted that sleeping with me wouldn't backfire.

But once we had sex, and she heard about my past experiences, she realized I was nothing like the man she'd imagined.

“So? Do you hate that?” I asked, half-joking.

“No,” she said. “That's why I like you. I really do.”

Our relationship, once vibrant like autumn leaves, began to wither before the season could end.

Like fallen leaves after an unexpected autumn rain, she suddenly disappeared one morning.

It was the last week of October.

Frustrated that we only ever had sex, I'd suggested a proper date. I booked a quiet Korean restaurant in Toechon, Gyeonggi.

But she never showed. Her phone was off.

Worried, I had a sinking feeling—something must have happened with him.

Her call came thirty minutes later. While she was out on a business errand, her ex had stormed her workplace, screaming and causing a scene.

Coworkers tried to calm him, but he kept shouting—so they called the police. Just in case, she finished her errand and left work early.

He'd done this before, she said, and her colleagues were already uncomfortable.

Now she was terrified—he might have left the station and be on his way to her home.

She sounded pitiful. “I'm so sorry… Can you come pick me up?”

When I arrived, she was packed with a large suitcase.

She couldn't stay at home—too anxious. She planned to stay at the company dorm, but couldn't move in until the next day.

So our fancy dinner was canceled, and another night in a dim, stale-smelling motel awaited.

But that night, she was different. She soared.

She climaxed so intensely it felt like her pleasure filled the entire room and spilled into the hallway.

Between rounds, she wouldn't let me go. When moans from the next room echoed, she smirked and whispered, “They can hear us too, right?”

We'd had sex many times that autumn, but this night, she was unforgettable—raw, deep, overwhelming.

When she finally calmed down—when she was completely drained, mind blank—I asked what had happened.

She was honest. She'd had sex with him.

Early that morning, he'd barged into her home and forced her down. She'd given in, thinking, “Whatever, let it be.”

Afterward, he seemed thrilled—smiling like everything was forgiven. He even gave her a gift before leaving.

But as soon as he was gone, she sent him a long message: “I have another man now. Please let today be our last.” Then she turned her phone off completely.

And the enraged man came straight to her workplace.

“Why do men care so much?”

She didn't finish, but I knew what she meant.

“‘Did you sleep with that bastard?' Why is that so important? Don't they assume you did?”

“That bastard… is me?”

She smiled that sultry smile again. “Who else could it be?”

She kept stomping her feet, muttering, “What do I do tomorrow? How can I face work, I'm so embarrassed?” Then, not wanting to think at all, she'd throw herself into my arms again.

I was confused. She clearly saw me as her partner—but was she clinging to me out of affection, or just using me to escape him?

I sat in that empty room for a long time, trying to understand. But I couldn't.

I wanted to know so badly. But regardless of my thoughts, that was the end.

She stopped checking my messages.

I kept sending them, desperate, but the “unread” counter stayed frozen.

Her phone was, of course, off. I assumed she was hiding from him.

I thought about going to her apartment—but she'd said she was going to the dorm. And was I really close enough to show up at her home?

Then I realized the truth.

She had simply left me.

Maybe she went back to him. Maybe she no longer needed me. Or maybe, just as she said, she feared becoming too addicted.

Whatever the reason—I had been discarded.

I finally understood.

Yesterday, the phone rang. It was the woman I'd met in Jeju.

I was happy to hear from her, though we weren't close—so I wondered what it was about.

She said she just missed me and wanted to talk.

We exchanged small talk, reminisced about Jeju—and then fell silent.

Hating the quiet, I asked about the fairy tale book she'd mentioned before.

But instead of answering, she asked something odd:

“That older sister… the one who called you at night, crying?”

“That sister?”

“Yeah~ The one who called late and cried.”

Ah, right. That call had come while I was sleeping with this girl in Jeju. It felt like it happened ages ago, though it had only been one autumn.

“What about her? Did she really want to sleep with you?”

Before I could think how sharp she is, I thought: Kids these days have no boundaries.

“No. Not like that.”

I lied.

“Then what was it?”

If I didn't answer, she'd keep asking.

“It was counseling. Relationship advice.”

She asked if it was still raining in Seoul. Said she wanted to visit when she had time.

Then she asked, “Between marriage and dating, which do you want more, Daniel?”

I said neither was on my mind. And no, the rain had stopped—though it wasn't cold yet.

She said Jeju was always warm, and I should come visit again sometime.

After hanging up, I looked out the window. The leaves, soaked with rain, looked heavy.

Autumn was already more than halfway over. It was time to prepare for the cold.

Winter. And the first snow. I wondered which would come first.

--- [My Story of Cumming Inside — The Poor Woman's Part] end.