Chapter 1 — My Wife's Experiment

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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My wife, wearing 10-centimeter heels, frowned and muttered,"Still uncomfortable."

She didn't usually wear such high heels. But today's outfit demanded it—low heels just wouldn't do, so I'd forced them on her before we left.

The pleated skirt, rising ten centimeters above her knees, was modest—almost traditional—compared to the outfits she usually wore when we went out to play our little game. Normally, when she dressed for brief, provocative outings, I made her wear the shortest possible mini-skirt.

Why? So men behind her on subway stairs could easily catch a glimpse beneath her skirt—a small courtesy, you might say.

But garter belts and ultra-short skirts didn't mix well, so we'd pulled out this tame, rarely worn skirt instead.

Still, it had its advantages—maybe even a flaw: the soft, wide fabric fluttered easily in the wind, lifting up with the slightest breeze.

The white stockings and lace-trimmed garter belt matched the white thong I'd chosen for her—one she never wore herself.

She'd complained, "Thongs make my ass raw after just one day."

But it was only for a little while. It was already 9 p.m., and within the next two or three hours, someone might take it off her anyway. Heh heh.

"You won't embarrass me in front of my friend, will you?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Just enjoy yourself."

She got off at a bus stop downtown and walked into a building with a café. Every man passing by stared, unable to look away.

The skirt was modest, thanks to the garter belt, but her legs—her most striking feature—looked flawless in those 10-centimeter heels.

And though the skirt was tame, her top was a silk blouse with bare shoulders, cut so low that her breasts were barely concealed.

And if you looked closely, past the lace, you could just make out her nipples—no bra, just bare—making it impossible for men to look away.

I lit a cigarette and waited about ten minutes. Then she came out with her friend.

I'd heard her mention "Emma" a few times, but I'd never seen her before.

Apparently, they'd met briefly five years ago at a wedding—my wife's junior's. But who remembers the face of a stranger's husband from five years ago?

Especially since I'd gained a lot of weight since then—my face was completely different.

And I've never been good with faces anyway. So this woman was a total stranger to me.

Not particularly beautiful, but undeniably alluring, dressed just provocatively enough.

She seemed like the perfect companion for my wife's night out.

I followed them as they took a taxi to the nightclub.

I parked in front, lit another cigarette, and walked in. The inside throbbed with pulsing music.

Ignoring the waiter asking if I had a table reserved, I scanned the room. My wife was seated in a corner booth on the left side of the stage.

I asked a waiter to seat me on the second floor, right side, ordered a drink, and settled in to watch.

True to our unspoken agreement, she didn't care whether I was there or not, chatting and laughing with her friend.

It was still too early for real entertainment.

At least there were Russian women in bikinis dancing near the stage—enough to keep me from getting bored.

After a few minutes of idle chatter, my wife and her friend headed onto the dance floor.

Under the flashing lights, people writhed like bean sprouts in a steamer. I just watched, spotting my wife in the crowd.

When the music switched to blues, they returned to the booth. Soon, a waiter approached, grabbed my friend's hand, and led her away.

She came back quickly—must not have liked her assigned partner.

A few minutes later, the waiter returned, this time taking my wife's hand.

He led her up the stairs, passed my table, and guided her deeper inside.

For a brief second, our eyes met. She didn't react, just kept walking.

I stood up and followed.

Past the second-floor tables, around a corner, a corridor lined with doors appeared.

This must be the private rooms.

My wife and the waiter disappeared into one. A moment later, the waiter came out.

"Sir, are you looking for something?"

"Huh? Oh—bathroom?"

"The restroom is downstairs on the first floor."

He assumed I was lost, looking for the bathroom, and hurried off after pointing the way.

I loitered for about five minutes. My wife didn't come out.

I returned to my seat, took a sip of my drink, and glanced at her friend.

She answered a call, spoke briefly, then sat back, sipping her drink calmly.

She wasn't looking for my wife—probably just talked to her.

A moment later, my wife passed by, spoke to her friend, called the waiter, said something, then grabbed her handbag.

Together, they came up to the second floor.

Looks like things went well with the guys in the room.

"Sir… would you like to book someone?"

"No. I'm just here for a drink. Don't worry about me."

Is it really that strange for a man to sit alone? Apparently, I'd become a curiosity to the staff and other patrons.

Then again, in cheap action movies, lone assassins always sit quietly in nightclubs, watching their prey. Heh heh.

Thirty minutes passed.

They were taking longer than I expected.

I walked to the corridor where the rooms were, leaned against the wall, and called my wife.

"Hello?"

"It's me."

"Honey… wait, it's too noisy, I can't hear."

The room was loud—singing, maybe. The noise cut through the call. Then the door opened, she saw me, and quickly closed it.

We were about ten meters apart. She didn't come over. Instead, she leaned against the door and kept talking.

"First booking went well?"

"Yeah. They're nice-looking. Fun."

"Good. Just singing? No dancing?"

"Not really. Doesn't feel like dancing right now."

She smiled faintly, then ended the call. She looked around, made sure no one was in the hallway.

Then, slowly, she faced me—and lifted her skirt.

I saw the white stockings, the garter straps—and her neatly trimmed pussy hair.

She flashed me a bare, naked lower half—proof she wasn't wearing panties.

Then she winked at me, smiled, and slipped back into the room.

Hmm. These guys must be pretty good.

Even if the women came here to play, most wouldn't have their panties off within thirty minutes.

I returned to my seat, sipping beer. Another thirty minutes passed.

My phone buzzed on the table.

"Hello…?"

"……"

Silence. I checked the caller ID—my wife.

Only loud, indistinct noise in my ear. Then I realized—it was music. Club music.

Suddenly, the music cut out.

And the surrounding sounds became clearer.

But nothing else. I waited.

Then, voices.

"Damn… damn… she's killing me…"

"Hey, what's wrong? Why are you moaning like that?"

"Shit… no joke… this girl Ah-yeong? Total pro… I'm gonna cum…"

Ah-yeong. That was my wife's alias when she went out to play, to meet men for sex.

I didn't know what she was doing, but from the guy's tone, she was doing something.

What, exactly? His next words confirmed it.

"Ah-yeong… I'm gonna cum. Can I shoot in your mouth?"

She didn't answer.

Then came the man's sharp, staccato moans.

"Fuck… look at her, eating it like that…"

"Why? You wouldn't do it?"

"Dunno… depends. Giggle giggle."

Another man's voice, and a woman's—probably her friend, one I'd never heard before.

Then my wife's voice:

"If you pull out at that moment, your face and clothes get sprayed. Who's cleaning that up? Better just to swallow."

"Alright, alright~ We got some hot service! Time to go again~"

A brief rustling sound, then cheers from the women.

"Yeah! Now I'm king~ Hmm… Ah-yeong, what should we order?"

"Dunno… you're king, order whatever you want."

"Hmm… payback time~ Heh heh. Seong-jae, you got serviced by Ah-yeong earlier, so now you service her. Min-sung, you service me."

More rustling. Then, in the quiet, faint sounds—muffled, but unmistakable.

In a quiet room, even small noises would be clear. But here, in the noisy hall, only voices carried. The rest blurred.

I thought I heard my wife's moaning—but was it real, or just my imagination?

I didn't know when it happened—whether she deliberately hung up or the call dropped—but suddenly, the line went dead.

For a long time after, I just sat there, imagining what she was doing in that room, watching Russian dancers spin on stage.

Then I saw her walk past.

Arm-in-arm with a good-looking guy, they moved onto the dance floor like lovers, dancing wildly. When the music switched to blues, they danced close, swaying together.

I found pleasure in watching my wife in another man's arms.

That's why I sometimes let her loose at clubs—just to watch, to enjoy.

Strange thing: when she played, I felt it as if I were playing. If the man didn't appeal to me, I hated it.

Sometimes, if I didn't like the guy, I'd sabotage it.

That's why she hesitated when I suggested these games at nightclubs.

She looked at me from the other man's arms and smiled.

She made a circle with her finger—OK.

He seemed decent enough—good with women, good-looking.

A while later, my wife and the man returned to the room, then came out again with their group and left the club.

I stepped outside, lit a cigarette.

My phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Hey… they're not going for a second round. They want to go straight to a motel…"

"Oh? Then I'd better hurry."

"I told them I'd grab coffee at a convenience store first."

"Good. I'll be there."

I rushed to my car and drove to a high-end motel district, one block away.

I pulled into the parking lot marked "Blue's" and a staff member popped out.

"Boss, you here?"

"Yeah. Everything okay? Any guests on the fourth floor?"

"No… both rooms are empty."

"Good. Got it."

I handed him the keys and walked to the corner of the motel alley, waiting.

A few minutes later, I saw my wife's group get out of a taxi and walk toward the building.

"Hey, boss… need a place to rest? Got an amazing room."

"What the…? Motels have pimps now?"

"Haha. Not a pimp. Just bored, no customers. Come on in. Two premium rooms, just to relax—30,000 won."

"What? That cheap? Is this even a motel?"

"Come on, don't be suspicious. Just come see. If you don't like it, leave."

I led the group inside and guided them to the fourth-floor premium rooms.

They looked around, surprised by the luxurious setup—almost hotel-grade.

I ushered them in, then climbed to the rooftop.

There, a shabby rooftop room sat, unnoticed.

To outsiders, it looked like a storage shed. Even the staff didn't know it was used.

I unlocked the door, stepped in, and relaxed in a lounge chair.

On the wall in front of me, nine large screens displayed live feeds from the fourth-floor rooms.

The premium rooms were spacious—about three times the size of regular ones.

Each room had five hidden cameras, covering every angle.

A small microphone by the headboard captured sound with perfect clarity.

I adjusted the control panel—sound set to Room 401, where my wife had gone.

Screens one through five showed 401. The other four showed 402.

On 401, my wife had just been pushed onto the bed by the man.

In 402, Emma was undressing—probably about to shower.

Then her phone rang.

I switched to 402's audio.

"Oh? Already? No… no, it's fine. He's just coming up suddenly, that's all. Yeah. Okay, hurry. Anything you want to eat? No? Okay, got it."

I caught on immediately.

Emma had told my wife she was a weekend wife—her husband couldn't come this week due to work.

Now she was calling her partner, quickly dressing, and leaving.

The man in her room let out a hollow laugh, lit a cigarette, and made a call.

In 401, the man stopped undressing my wife, answered his phone.

I switched back to 401's audio. He'd already hung up and was speaking to her.

"Ah-yeong. Emma's gone."

"What? Why?"

"Her husband's coming up suddenly. Just called."

"Wow… the dog chasing chickens ends up staring at the roof. Giggle giggle."

"So Seung-hyun asked if he can come over and join us?"

"What? You two want to play with me?"

"Play? Nah… we're gonna serve you. Heh heh."

"Ugh… perverts…"

"Come on. You love it. Why act so cold? Tell him to come. We'll treat you right tonight."

"Wait… let me call her. At least tell her the girl's leaving."

She picked up her phone and called.

A moment later, the phone on the nightstand beside me rang loudly.

"Hello?"

"Hello. Is your husband coming up?"

"Your friend invited him too… tonight's a rotating porno. Heh heh."

"Yeah… can't be helped. I'll call you tomorrow. Yeah. Bye."

Soon, the man from next door entered 401, climbed onto the bed, and joined in.

My wife began taking both men—one in her mouth, one in her pussy.

I stripped naked, lay back, and started stroking my cock, watching my wife's raw, live porno.

Knock knock.

"It's open. Come in."

"Already started? You're in a hurry."

"Heh heh. You know how it is. Still early. My wife's gonna have a rough night, huh?"

"Damn… I wanna go over there too. Why does only Ah-yeong get all the fun?"

"Next time, we'll switch roles. You'll be the one getting passed around. Tonight, just watch and enjoy. Come here."

Emma knelt at my feet, took my hard cock into her mouth, and began sucking.

Slurp… slurp… "But… mmm… why make it so complicated? Why not just invite two guys and let them take turns with Ah-yeong?"

"It's more fun this way. And it has to feel real. If you just invite two guys and say, 'Take turns,' she'd refuse.

And men are funny—put two together, one always hesitates. But pair them as friends? Then they really play."

"You're twisted. But lucky as hell. Haha.