Chapter 1 — My Wife's Affair Scene

I had always found comfort in my wife's presence. She was my sanctuary, the one place where I could breathe freely, where peace settled deep into my bones.

But three months ago, she began to change.

She often looked burdened, her eyes shadowed with something unreadable. A constant wariness flickered in her gaze, and I could feel the tension radiating from her skin. I didn't know why, but the unease clung to me like smoke.

Even before that, she'd started complaining about how hard it was to manage the household finances. With my modest salary and the large house I'd inherited from my father, I couldn't ignore her suggestion for long. She wanted to take in a lodger.

The house layout made it feasible. The first floor opened to the front entrance, while the basement connected directly to a back door. If we simply installed a door at the base of the basement stairs, the two spaces could be completely separated.

The basement even had its own shower room, a small kitchen equipped with cooking appliances, city gas, and a multipurpose laundry space—everything she'd need without relying on me. It was convenient, almost too convenient.

After a week of frantic preparation, my wife managed to find a tenant—a graduate student from S University, studying law and preparing for the bar exam. He needed a quiet place to live, someone who wouldn't disturb his routine. He ate out most days, spent his time in libraries or study rooms, and only needed a peaceful bed and laundry service. Paying in advance for two years' rent sealed the deal. I agreed immediately. So did my wife.

On the day the lodger moved in, someone from the real estate agency said they'd send a representative. I barely paid attention, so when I arrived home late due to traffic, I wasn't surprised no one seemed to mind.

Inside, my wife sat on the floor with the graduate student and a tall, well-dressed man in his late thirties—the real estate agent, I assumed.

“Ah, sorry I'm late. Traffic was terrible.”

“No problem,” the agent said with a calm smile. “Everything's been settled. The rent is already paid in full for two years.”

The student looked polite, studious—but there was a certain ease in his posture, a softness in his features that hinted at wealth.

“What do your parents do?” I asked.

“My father runs a large fish market in Busan. I disappointed him by not taking over the family business. Now I'm here, struggling through the bar exam instead.”

We all nodded in sympathy.

“Honey, since the contract's done, let's treat them to a meal,” my wife said, rising gracefully. She wore a light summer dress, short enough to draw the eye, though I didn't think much of it.

As she disappeared into the kitchen, I offered cigarettes. We chatted—about military service, the student's studies, my job—while the sounds of cooking drifted from the kitchen.

Then her voice called out again.

“Honey, could you help me move the rice from the basement storage to the pantry beside the kitchen?”

I stood up, ready to go, but the student—Thomas Song—offered to help instead. Then the agent, Eric Yeon, stood too.

“I'll help clean the kitchen storage.”

“Great, more hands,” I said, heading toward the back door with Thomas Song.

As we passed the kitchen window, I glanced up.

And saw Eric Yeon stepping up behind my wife, his body close to hers, his hands nearly touching her back.

I blinked, dismissed it, and continued downstairs.

We carried the rice sacks up together. By the time we returned, Eric Yeon and my wife were moving the heavy dining table into the living room.

“You're helping so much on your first visit,” I said, feeling slightly embarrassed.

That night, the four of us shared dinner, drank beer, laughed lightly, then went our separate ways.

But that was only the beginning.

After that, my wife slowly came back to life. Her mood lifted. The household felt richer, easier. I noticed it in the way she smiled, in the new groceries, in the relaxed set of her shoulders.

Then came the business trip.

I received orders to go to Busan for three nights, four days. Thomas Song happened to be going the same way—to visit his father—and suggested we travel together. I agreed.

My wife pouted as she packed my bag. “It'll be scary with both of you gone.”

Before we left, she made me promise to call as soon as I arrived, to tell her exactly where I was staying.

I reassured her. “Don't worry. I'll call.”

Traveling with Thomas Song kept me company. His father treated us lavishly at a high-end restaurant, and I ended up staying at a luxury hotel. The evening was pleasant—more than pleasant. I felt good.

That night, I called home.

The phone rang several times before she answered.

“H-Hello?”

“Hey, it's me. Were you asleep?”

“No… How… did you… arrive?”

“Yeah. We're at the Shilla Hotel, room 234. Thomas Song's dad treated us to a fancy dinner. Got a great meal.”

“R-Really?…When… will you… come back?”

Her breathing was ragged, uneven.

“Honey, are you sick? Why are you breathing like that?”

“No… I was just… cleaning the room… when I picked up… I should sleep now… huff…”

“It's the middle of the night. Why are you cleaning now?”

I told her to go to bed and hung up.

Still, something nagged at me. Cleaning at midnight?

Thomas Song decided to stay another week with his father. I cut my trip short by a day and booked an early flight back to Seoul. But my colleague, Mr. Yoo, extended his stay due to extra work, so I left without saying goodbye to Thomas Song.

I arrived home after 4 PM.

At the front door, I reached for my keys—gone. But the door was unlocked. I stepped inside.

The house was empty.

No shoes by the entrance. No sound.

I didn't put my bag down. Instead, I walked toward the basement door.

I thought I heard something.

The repair on the basement door wasn't finished yet—just a frosted glass panel and a flimsy door, left slightly ajar, no lock.

I turned to leave—then froze.

Footsteps. Whispered voices.

Fear prickled my spine. A thief?

Then I recognized the voice—low, familiar.

“Hurry up. Pull down your pants.”

“No… I can't. Not anymore. My husband will find out. I'll be ruined. Just let last night be enough.”

That was my wife's voice.

I couldn't move.

“Now!”

Through the crack, I saw her kneel. Her hands trembled as she tugged at the man's pants. Then his underwear dropped.

His cock sprang out—thick, veined, grotesque—swinging right in front of her face.

“There. This is what you love. Last night we satisfied each other with licking, but not today. I know women like you. You resist at first, but once you start, you can't stop. Look—your panties are already soaked.”

She kept her head down.

He gripped his shaft with one hand, then grabbed her chin, forcing her to look up. Without hesitation, he shoved himself into her mouth.

She struggled—tried to pull away—but he held firm. Soon, her lips wrapped around him, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked.

“That's it. Just like that. Mmm… yes… suck my balls too. Yes… ah… good.”

She took him deeper, then began licking his testicles, swirling her tongue everywhere, exploring every ridge and fold.

This was something she'd never done for me.

Jealousy clawed at my chest. My stomach twisted, bile rising. I wanted to scream. To burst in. But I stayed still.

The man slowly bent his knees, reached around her back, and started lifting her skirt.

She tried to push his hands away, but he was stronger.

She wasn't wearing a slip—just a thin pair of panties. His rough hand slid up her back, then down between her buttocks, probing, pressing.

Then, with a sharp tug, he ripped her panties off.

I froze.

Behind her, her pussy glistened—drenched in slick arousal, juices dripping like honey.

And the man—his face finally visible—was Eric Yeon.

Yeon quickly positioned himself beneath her, spreading her open.

My wife faced away from me, her back exposed. Yeon lay on his back, facing the opposite direction. Neither could see me.

She slowly spread her legs wider. Her head bobbed rapidly—she was sucking him deep, no doubt.

“Mmm… ugh… ugh… lower… lower… suck harder there… yes… ugh… ugh…”

Even with his cock stuffed in her mouth, she moaned, begging him to focus on her clit.

Yeon clamped his mouth over her pussy, sucking greedily at the wetness. At the same time, one finger circled her opening, then slipped inside.

“Ahh! No! Not the anus… ah… ah… ahh!”

But even as she protested, she pushed her hips back, offering herself.

Slowly, Yeon pulled his hand free. He brought his fingers—glistening with her fluids—to her mouth.

Without hesitation, she licked them clean, sucking each finger like a treat.

Yeon spoke again, voice low and mocking.

“That's right. Tell me—why did you stop me from leaving yesterday? Why insist on drinking beer? And why lift your short skirt while picking up snacks from the floor, letting me catch glimpses of that shiny little slit? Hmm? And why leave the bathroom door open while you peed… on purpose?”

I stepped back silently, climbed to the front hall.

I wanted to see how they'd react.

I walked back to the front door, locked it, then pressed the doorbell—as if I'd just arrived.

Silence.

Then footsteps. My wife opened the door, her face flushed.

She stared at me, stunned.

“What… what are you doing here?”

“Oh, work finished early. Came straight back. Everything okay?”

“Y-yes… I mean… nothing's wrong. The real estate agent came by.”

“Who?”

I feigned confusion.

Then Yeon stood up from the living room.

His pants were still tented, his erection obvious. He shifted awkwardly, hips tilted back, trying to hide it.

“He said he came to discuss renovation costs for the lodger's room. Thought I might need help settling the expenses.”

The excuse was plausible.

I smiled, pretending gratitude. “Oh, no need for that. We can just deduct it from the rent. Really, it's fine.”

That was the end of it.

Yeon left. I scolded my wife for not finishing the basement repairs before Thomas Song arrived and called carpenters and plasterers to finish the job.

By evening, the work was mostly done. The basement was now a fully independent unit. That night passed quietly.

My wife watched me constantly, searching my face for clues. When she saw no suspicion, she finally relaxed.

But she didn't know.

That calm was my trap.

I had already taken the first move.

And I was smiling inside, believing I was the one in control.

The real events began a week after Thomas Song returned.

Life resumed as usual.

But I used the money I'd saved to secretly install surveillance cameras—in Thomas Song's room, around the house.

I was skilled with electrical systems. I installed cheap black-and-white security lenses in strategic spots, connecting them all with wires to the TV and VCR in my study.

It took me a week to set up the remote password system—only I could access the footage.

I scoured electronics markets, bought a secondhand extended-time VTR for backup, and hid it deep in my study.

Because I had to work when my wife was out, the whole process took nearly ten days.

Audio was tricky—low quality, but recognizable.

Luckily, Thomas Song had to stay at school for two weeks during midterms, helping professors with exams and student guidance. That made things easier.

Once everything was installed, I waited.

The next day, Thomas Song's exams ended. He would be home all day during his week-long break.

I fixed the camera angle on the basement, started recording, and left for work.

That night, I watched the playback.

And I nearly jumped out of my seat.