Chapter 1 — Standing at Dawn — The One Who Comes at Daybreak

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’ve been living in this neighborhood for just over half a year now, ever since I opened my little ribs joint. I bought a two-story house—the first floor is the restaurant, and we live upstairs with my family.

As I got older, I felt restless, like I’d done nothing worthwhile with my life. That’s why I begged my husband to let me start this place.

From the beginning, though, he never really approved of me running a business. So I’ve been doing everything on my own.

He works a regular job and doesn’t lift a finger around the restaurant. If I ever complain about how hard it is, all he says is, "Well, who told you to do it then?"—yelling at me like I’m some fool. I can’t talk to him about anything.

I have three people in the kitchen and two serving staff. I manage the counter, and when it gets busy—or if one of the ladies in the dining room doesn’t show up—I jump in and help serve.

The place isn’t in a busy commercial district, so most of our customers are locals.

I first saw David Kim—about two or three months after opening.

A group of four came in, ordered sirloin, and started drinking heavily, laughing loudly, making a real scene. I remember thinking, Ugh, I wish they’d just leave already, and silently muttering, Poor wives, having to deal with these clowns.

But then they came back. For three or four days straight.

Of course, more customers meant better sales, which was good—but part of me thought, Seriously? Have you people never eaten meat before? Who eats beef like this every day?

They kept calling each other "Mr. Park," "Mr. Kim"—sounded like they all ran tiny shops nearby or something.

Then one night, David Kim called out from his table:
"Hey, ma'am! Come here a sec!"

I figured something must be wrong with the food, so I went over.

And what does he say?

"Wait, you’ve had us coming here every few days—don’t you think you should come over and thank us with a drink?"

I couldn’t believe it.

Are these guys seriously looking down on me just because I run a restaurant? If I weren’t running this place, I wouldn’t even glance at trash like you!

But what could I do?

"I’ve been busy… sorry," I said, forcing a smile.

Then he shot back:
"Busy? There’s no one else here."

He was right. All the other guests had left. Only these pests were still sitting there, dead weight.

"Come on, have a drink with us! Pour yourself one, I’ll pour you one!" He held out a glass and poured me soju.

"Oh, I don’t drink much… and during business hours…" I waved my hand coyly.

Like I couldn’t handle a few shots of soju? Back in my younger years, I used to go out drinking with friends all the time.

And honestly, I wasn’t bad-looking back then—(it’s true!)—so plenty of people tried to get me drunk, hoping to take advantage. But I never once lost control.

Still, I couldn’t just sit down and giggle with these strangers. My staff was watching. I had to maintain some dignity.

I started backing away, but then he said:

"Wait, ma'am! Do you think we’re single? You think we wait around till your shift ends just to go drinking? We eat fast and head home too, you know!"

Excuse me? Since when did I invite you to drink after closing? When did I tell you not to go home?

I was completely flustered. I glanced at my staff for support—but oh, their looks said it all: Just take one drink and get it over with. We want to clean up and go home too.

So I gave in. I stood there and accepted the glass.

But just as I was about to sip—

"Ma'am, you have hemorrhoids?"

What kind of random question was that?

I froze, glass halfway to my lips, staring at him.

"If you don’t have hemorrhoids, sit down and drink properly! Hahaha!"

Oh, what a crude bastard. Instead of just saying "sit," he had to bring up someone’s ass in front of everyone. Even the other guys and my staff burst out laughing. My face burned red.

His friends scooted aside, urging me to sit across from him. I sat, barely touching the rim of the glass before setting it down.

Then he dropped another bomb.

"You should be executed."

"What?"

"I said—you should be executed."

Now what? Was this guy seriously getting aggressive? I tensed up, ready to snap.

"…Why?"

I looked straight at him. He was staring right back at me.

Fine. Say one more stupid thing, and I’ll tell him: You’re banned. I won’t put up with this anymore.

Then he said:

"Hypothetically… if there was a law where ugly women get acquitted, slightly pretty ones get one year, prettier ones get ten years, and very pretty ones get life imprisonment… you? You’d get the death penalty."

I’d been bracing myself, heart pounding—then his last line hit me.

"Hohoho…!"

I burst out laughing. Uncontrollably.

Wasn’t he basically saying I was beautiful?

Tch. At least this guy knows how to look at a woman.

I felt genuinely flattered. Sure, I’d heard compliments like that endlessly when I was young—but as I aged, men stopped saying things like "you’re pretty." It had been years.

My heart fluttered.

After that laugh, the tension melted. I split my drink into two sips, then poured him a round.

I noticed lipstick on the glass, so I reached to wipe it before handing it over—but he kept stopping me, insisting it was fine. So I just passed it as-is.

He took the glass, looked at the spot where my lips had been, and said:

"Did the boss drink from here?"

Then—he actually leaned in and sucked the rim twice. Chu! Chu!

Ugh. I’d never met such a shameless lowlife. The good mood vanished instantly. I felt violated, like he’d stolen a kiss.

I stood up, furious.

But then he said:

"Oh god, ma'am, I’m sorry! I just got carried away because you’re so damn beautiful."

"No, seriously—I’m sorry!" He stood up, bowed deeply. "Let me formally apologize."

It was… weird.

One second he was a total creep. The next, bowing like a gentleman? Suddenly, he didn’t seem so crude. Almost… mannered.

And on top of that—he said I was beautiful. How could I stay mad?

That night ended awkwardly, but peacefully.

After that, he didn’t come around for several days.

Not that I was waiting for him or anything—but given how bizarre he’d acted, I definitely noticed his absence.

Then, after a week, he showed up again with his friends. I was behind the counter when I saw them walk in. I jumped up, genuinely happy.

"Oh! Welcome back!"

He ignored my greeting, walked straight over, and whispered:

"They haven’t contacted you yet, have they?"

"Huh? Who?"

"The ones coming to execute you. Strange… they said the law would pass soon…"

"Huh? Hohoho…!"

He was ridiculous. But since he was a regular now, I went over to take their order and made polite small talk.

"So, where’ve you all been?"

He answered immediately:

"I couldn’t come. I was too ashamed for stealing the boss’s lips."

He said it loud enough to make it sound like we’d kissed—and like he planned to brag about it everywhere. Embarrassing. Humiliating.

Still, after that, we grew closer—me, him, and his friends—more than with any other customers.

One night, I was called over again, accepted a glass of soju. His friends started asking about my husband—how early he got home, whether he was affectionate.

I answered honestly. When I said he usually came home late, they joked among themselves: Maybe we should step in for him?

Then he waited for the table to quiet down—and dropped a line:

"Boss—I’m number one on the reservation list."

"For what?"

"If you ever decide to have an affair… I’m first. You call me first. No exceptions."

"Hohoho…!" I laughed, but inside—annoyed.

Then he dug through his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and handed me a ten-thousand-won bill.

"What’s this?"

I took it, wondering if it was a tip.

"A deposit. For reserving spot number one."

Truthfully, I had been feeling neglected since starting this business.

Working late every night, I was exhausted—completely drained. In the early days, even when my husband touched me, I’d push him away, saying I was tired. After a few times, he stopped trying.

When I finally went to bed, I just wanted to sleep. And him? He comes home drunk every night, reeking of booze.

Lately, he’s been happier than ever—since I’ve stopped nagging.

Sometimes I think about intimacy. But the timing’s never right.

For months, I’ve lived like a widow.

Holding that bill, hearing his words—suddenly, deep inside…

Here, everyone just bluntly calls it pussy. (So embarrassing!)—but mine twitched strangely.

Still, how could I possibly cheat? I ran a restaurant. I barely had time to breathe.

I brushed it off as a joke.

But one day, they started talking about morning hikes in the mountains.

I’d heard the hill behind our place was nice, but I didn’t know where to go—and had been too busy with work to try.

Lately, though, I’d noticed my stomach starting to bulge. I used to do aerobics, swimming—stayed fit even in my late thirties. Now I needed to move.

So I chimed in: "I should start going too."

Next thing I knew—he said he’d pick me up tomorrow morning.

Going hiking at dawn with another man? It felt… questionable.

But it was just exercise. What harm could it do?

You’re probably bored by now, waiting for the juicy parts. Maybe some readers already scrolled ahead or quit.

Sorry—but where else could I tell this story freely? Since I’ve come this far, please bear with me a little longer. ^-^

The next morning, I dragged my tired body out of bed, put on workout clothes, and waited downstairs.

Exactly at 5 a.m., he arrived.

We walked to the trailhead—about forty minutes. Even at that hour, the mountain was full of people.

We stretched, chatted, drank spring water on the way down. Felt refreshing.

On the way back, I apologized and said I could come alone from now on.

But he insisted: "It’s dangerous in the early morning. I’ll keep coming for a while."

He was probably more dangerous than any stranger—but I couldn’t reject his kindness. And walking alone did feel risky.

So I agreed.

We kept this up for days.

But for someone who claimed to hike regularly, he didn’t know many people. Later, I found out—he hadn’t been up this mountain in years. Not until me.

After a while, we started greeting others. Some assumed we were a couple.

I never corrected them.

One morning, as we descended, he turned serious.

"You know… in all human relationships, instead of dwelling on how others wronged you, you should ask—what did I fail to give them?"

Sounded like a thoughtful quote, but it was thoughtful. I nodded along, secretly impressed.

"What do you think, ma'am?"

"Yes, I agree completely."

"Most people say that. But almost no one lives it. That’s why society feels so cold."

Every word made sense.

"And you’re no different."

Uh-oh. Here it comes.

"What do you mean?"

"Have you ever thought—what could you give me that you’re holding back?"

Something felt… off.

"You know what you want. You know where it is. You know exactly what I’m talking about. If you just grant me one wish… the world becomes brighter. Don’t you see that?"

What a sleaze.

Trying to be clever, I said:
"Coffee? I’ll brew you some at my place."

"Hahaha!" He laughed. "Does drinking dull, bitter coffee make the world brighter? No—only clear, pure water can do that."

Muttered it like a riddle. I didn’t know how to respond.

But as we walked down, his words echoed in my ears—clear, pure water—and down there, I felt a strange warmth pulse.

Moisture gathered…

"Ugh! Am I so starved that any dumb comment turns me on?" I shook my head, sprinted down the mountain to shake off the feeling.

By the time I reached the shop, he followed me inside.

Only then did I remember my offer.

"Want that coffee now?"

"Thanks," he said, sitting at a table.

I went to the kitchen, put water on the stove. Then, not wanting to sit across from him awkwardly, I excused myself to change clothes and wash up—went upstairs.

Glanced at the clock—just past six. My husband was still asleep.

I washed my face quickly, wiped sweat off my body with a towel, changed into fresh outer clothes—but didn’t bother with new underwear.

Rushed back downstairs.

The water was already boiling. He’d taken the kettle off.

We sat at separate tables, avoiding eye contact, sipping coffee in silence.

Eventually, he stood, like he was leaving.

It was still two or three hours before opening. I got up to follow him out, planning to lock up.

He held his empty cup. I thought, Just leave it, but walked over to take it.

In that instant—my body was suddenly in his arms.

His thick lips covered mine.

And before I knew it, my entire body had gone limp, collapsing like a mollusk.

I didn’t want to admit it—but my body had been waiting for this moment.

He carried my lifeless form toward the stairs leading up to our living quarters.

The moment I slumped onto the floorboards, my skirt was yanked up. His hand slipped under my panties.

Inside my head, it wasn’t This is wrong…
It was Oh god… I didn’t even wipe properly…

He didn’t care. Pushed me flat, shoved my panties aside.

His hand reached my pussy—

I’ll speak plainly now. Pussy. (Even saying it makes me tingle.)

His fingers slid through my slit—once, twice. I could feel how wet I was.

I enjoyed the sensation—but also worried. Would he think I was a slut for being so soaked?

Now that I think about it, I was already wet during coffee. Maybe even since we came down the mountain… all the way~~~!

No time to dwell.

After his fingers, something hot and heavy pressed against my entrance.

I wasn’t a child. I knew exactly what it was.

If I’d had any decency, I’d have said—even just for show—"What are you doing?! Stop!"
That’s what a married woman should do.

But the moment his skin touched mine, my body burned.

Another man’s cock—entering me for the first time in years. While my husband slept upstairs, clueless…

Ah~~~! My pussy felt like a baby bird’s mouth—wide open, begging to be fed.

His weight pressed down. His cock pushed in.

I expected it to slide in smoothly, like my husband’s—swoosh—but it didn’t.

"Ah—ahh!"

I moaned without meaning to.

It felt like he was pressing a club wrapped in raw abalone against me. My pussy felt crushed.

He must’ve heard me.

He pulled out, then rubbed the tip in circles at my entrance.

God, how good that felt…

I nearly cried out: "Yes! Keep doing that!"

While I savored the warm pressure, he entered me again.

At that moment, I thought my bones were melting.

The bumpy ridge on the tip of his cock scraped the walls inside as it pushed deeper—such intense pleasure, unlike anything I’d ever known.

I felt like I might faint.

When his iron-hard cock pulled out, I missed it so much I grabbed his ass to stop him.

Am I a dirty woman?

How could I welcome another man’s cock into my pussy—not resisting, not even hesitating—but missing it?

Even now, I’m too embarrassed to describe it fully. But maybe… because that cock had lived in my mind and dreams for so long?

I realized my hips and pussy were chasing his cock as it withdrew.

When it thrust back in, my hips retreated. When it twisted inside me, my lower body twisted with it.

I was just following his movements—but he probably thought I was grinding like a slut.

Even now, I cringe remembering what I said.

"Ah! Honey! You feel so good! Haaang! I’m going crazy! Ahh! Honey! Honey~~~~oooh!"

No matter how good it felt, those words shouldn’t have come from a woman like me.

But in that moment—even if my sleeping husband had stormed down and yanked me by the hair—I wouldn’t have let go of his cock.

Only after passing out twice from his relentless pace did I finally receive his hot load deep inside my pussy.

When he pulled out, the sweet warmth lingered in me. I couldn’t move.

He kissed my lips lightly, pulled my skirt down, and said:
"I’ll be back tomorrow morning."

I lay there, dreamlike, feeling his warm cum slowly seep out of my pussy.

The next day, why did time drag so slowly until dawn?

After brushing my teeth—even though I’d showered the night before—I washed down there thoroughly, put on fresh panties.

What was I even doing? A woman getting ready for a morning hike…

I calmed my racing heart, went downstairs, opened the shop.

And there he was, waiting outside. Walked right in.

Without a word, he pulled me close and sucked my lips.

I wrapped both arms around his neck, opened my mouth for him.

His tongue explored my mouth while his hand firmly pressed my mound.

I wanted to touch him too—but hesitated. Then, as arousal built, I slipped my hand under his sweatpants and gripped his cock.

So warm. So hard. Throbbing powerfully in my palm.

He laid me on the nearest table, yanked down his sweatpants and underwear together.

Spread my legs wide. Drank greedily from my pussy—the clear, pure water he’d craved—then pounded me harder than yesterday with that monstrous cock.

My juices gushed so much they dripped onto the table. I worried—what if a customer smells it later?

That day, we never made it to the mountain.

After that, we met almost every dawn in the shop.

Each time, knowing my husband was asleep upstairs only made me writhe harder beneath him.

But lately, he’s been skipping our morning hikes.

Maybe I’ve worn him out.

This is my little secret.

Now, I have a question—hope someone can answer.

Men often say their dicks get hard at dawn.

But do women… get turned on at dawn too?

Lately, every single morning—

Is it just me? Or do other women feel this way?

Or is there even a phrase—women stand at dawn?