Chapter 1 — Secret Tryst with My Wife's Classmate 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'm thirty-seven now.

It happened seven years ago—back when I was thirty, still young, blood boiling with restless energy.

I'd married at twenty-eight. I had a beautiful wife and a lovely daughter. My wife was undeniably attractive—anyone would say so. Her figure was flawless. But there was one thing missing: affection. She had feelings, I knew that, but she never expressed them. In bed, she was passive, never taking initiative. Sexually, I was deeply unsatisfied.

At the time, I worked as a private taxi driver.

After high school, I had no clear path, just drifting aimlessly until my parents bought me a car. In our town, taxis didn't cruise for passengers. Instead, we parked at the garage, waiting for calls or customers to come to us—more like a dispatch service. So when there were no rides, I'd just idle around, killing time.

Right in front of the taxi garage was a Kentucky Fried Chicken shop run by my wife's friend.

When I had nothing to do—or when my turn for a fare hadn't come up—I often wandered over there, grabbing a cold drink, chatting idly, passing the hours.

Her name was Emma Lee. Not stunningly beautiful, but striking in her own way—short-cropped hair, tall and lean, yet with a full, curvy figure that radiated a certain magnetism men couldn't ignore. At twenty-eight, she was already a mother of two daughters—a married woman, as people called it—but far from dull.

Her husband, though, was ten years older than her. And he was the type—drank too much, came home bickering, always half-lit and grumpy.

That day was a bright spring morning.

My wife had told me she was going to a class reunion, renting a minibus to head down to the seaside. She asked me to drive since she didn't trust others behind the wheel. So I agreed and went along.

I took the driver's seat. All her friends piled into the back. Emma claimed she got motion sickness sitting in the rear, so she slipped into the passenger seat beside me.

She was dressed tight—skin-hugging jeans, a snug crop top that clung to every curve of her body. That plump, round ass… God, I wanted to climb on it, grip it, squeeze it until she moaned. I imagined yanking those jeans down, exposing her flesh, teasing her however I pleased.

Finally, we set off.

Upbeat music blasted through the speakers. In the back, the women cracked open canned beers, laughing loudly, shouting over each other, lost in their own world.

Amid the chaos, I stole glances at Emma.

Beside me, her full breasts strained against her top. Her jeans hugged her hips so tightly they looked ready to burst. And right above the waistband—a thick, soft mound pressing against the fabric.

Ah…

I pictured the dark slit beneath, pulsing, wet. Just thinking about it sent a jolt straight to my groin. Without realizing, my cock stiffened hard, swelling under my pants, pitching a tent so obvious it could've been seen from space.

What if she sees?

I panicked—but then realized she wasn't looking away. She glanced down, caught sight of my bulge, and smirked. Just a quiet, knowing chuckle.

I was trembling with arousal.

Then she leaned slightly toward me. "The song ended. Let me change it. You just focus on driving, Mr. Lee."

She shifted closer. I glanced back—the women in the back were still rowdy, drunk on beer and laughter. My wife, flushed and giggly, was chattering nonstop.

And then—her left hand brushed lightly against the swollen front of my pants. Just a fleeting touch. Then she pulled away.

My breath stopped.

Holy shit…

My cock throbbed violently, straining against the zipper like it might tear through. But I couldn't do anything—not here, not now.

Later, we reached the East Sea. We ate fresh sashimi, walked along the shore, laughed, played. But my attention never wavered from Emma. I stayed close, watched her movements, studied her reactions.

But she gave nothing away. No sign. No hint.

On the way back, everyone grew tired.

My wife and her friends folded the back seats flat and lay down to sleep.

Emma, again using motion sickness as an excuse, sat beside me. All interior lights were turned off. We drove in near darkness, lit only by the headlights of oncoming cars.

Every time a beam passed over her face, I glimpsed her expression—flushed, lips slightly parted. Was it the alcohol from dinner? Or something else? Something I'd stirred?

I decided to take a risk.

With my left hand, I slowly unzipped my pants. Underneath, my cock was already out through the fly of my underwear—engorged, dripping pre-cum, twitching wildly.

Ting!

Clear fluid glistened at the tip, making the shaft slick and shiny. Freed from confinement, it bobbed obscenely in the dim light.

Emma's eyes widened.

It was about fifteen centimeters long—thicker than average, enough to fill a woman's hand completely. My wife had once admitted she'd never lacked satisfaction in bed because of it.

Now, seeing it fully erect, throbbing right beside her… I could imagine the heat building inside her.

Knowing my wife and her friends were asleep just behind us made it even more thrilling.

I gripped the steering wheel with my right hand, kept driving. With my left, I began slowly stroking myself—up and down, smooth and steady.

The excitement was unbearable.

Masturbating right in front of my wife's friend—so taboo, so electrifying.

Even at rest, my cock wouldn't calm down—jerking, pulsing on its own.

At first, she pretended not to look. But soon, whenever headlights flashed, she stared openly—eyes locked on my hand, on the glistening shaft, on the way it swelled with each stroke.

I kept moving slowly.

Then she turned slightly, pretending to talk to the women behind us. But her body edged closer to mine.

And then—her right hand snaked backward.

It brushed my thigh.

Then—found its target.

Ah…

My heart nearly stopped.

Her slender fingers gently wrapped around my cock.

I almost groaned aloud.

There she was—facing away, chatting casually with the others, while her hand moved behind her back, gripping me, stroking me under the cover of darkness.

My cock surged, growing even thicker, longer.

Pre-cum oozed freely, coating her fingers, making them slick.

I felt a shiver race up my spine—a deep, primal pleasure flooding through me.

I couldn't hold back.

I was at my limit.

I pressed my left hand over the head, trying to stifle it.

Urk… urk… urk…

Jet after jet erupted—far more than usual, spurting hot and thick.

It didn't stop.

Gush after gush coated her hand, dripping onto her fingers, pooling in her palm.

She calmly pulled her hand away, adjusted her posture, and quietly pulled out a tissue. Pretending to wipe her mouth, she quickly cleaned her hand, then tucked the soiled paper into her pocket.

So composed. So natural.

Then she subtly pulled out a few more tissues and silently handed them to me.

Even after that release, my cock still twitched—half-hard, still leaking, refusing to go down completely.

That was how it ended—for now.

But it wasn't really over.

It was only the beginning.

That night, I was so worked up I couldn't sleep. I made love to my wife, but all I could think about was Emma.

As I thrust into my wife's warm folds, I imagined it was Emma's pussy I was filling.

My wife moaned, "You're so strong tonight! Ah! Honey, oh my god, yes!"

The next day, I went to the fried chicken shop like nothing had happened.

Emma greeted me normally, no awkwardness, no tension.

"I've been wanting to buy you a drink," she said, "but Min-kyung's mom can't drink. Never get the chance."

"If you're buying, I'll be there—even if I don't drink. When are you inviting me?"

I teased, adding a playful grin.

"Tonight. Right now."

"Okay. Call me later. You have my number, right?"

I finished work early and dialed her.

She answered—her husband was already drunk, passed out at home. "Where should we meet?"

We met, and I picked her up in my taxi—no suspicion, no questions. We drove thirty kilometers to another city, found a karaoke room, ordered canned beers.

She drank just a little—barely enough to affect most people—but her cheeks were flushed, her eyes brighter.

After a few songs, I shut off the machine.

Without a word, I took her hand and led her out.

She didn't resist.

I drove straight to a motel.

She followed me inside, silent, compliant.

The moment we entered the room, I grabbed her from behind and pulled her into a tight embrace.

"Ahh!"

I pushed her down onto the bed—rough, urgent. I left her top on, but yanked her jeans down in one swift motion.

She wore white panties.

I tore them off without hesitation.

She covered her face with both hands.

I spread her legs wide—forcefully.

Her dark, glistening slit opened before me—exposed, vulnerable.

Shame had to go. Embarrassment had to vanish. Only then could we truly dive into filthy, unrestrained sex.

So I gripped her thighs, pushed them back further—until her knees nearly touched her chest, her ass lifted high, her pussy fully exposed to the ceiling.

The most humiliating, most arousing position.

And she didn't fight it.

She just lay there—breathing fast, trembling, waiting.