Chapter 1 — That Man and This Woman

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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The first guy on Reddholics seemed promising. So did the second, third, fourth, and fifth.
Then there were five more I reached out to after exchanging messages, driven by sheer curiosity.

Out of the ten, eight were complete duds. One was just average. And one—was extraordinary.
This is the story of that one man, the one who left me breathless.

When I browsed Reddholics, most guys seemed so painfully immature.
I imagined club guys rubbing their dicks around like it meant something, so I didn't bother engaging much—didn't even read most messages.
I mostly just read women's forum posts. Then, suddenly, a message popped up.
That's how it started. I met a few, slept with them. But their dicks were so underwhelming, I left disappointed every time.

I'd fake a polite moan, go home, and block them—over and over.

One guy was clearly married.
He said he was living with his girlfriend. I thought, At least he has some conscience, mentioning her. But in bed? Completely shameless.
Sure, I'm experienced enough to know how to squeeze things out, but I never expected him to cum so pathetically fast, then flash me an apologetic grin.
Blocked.

Another guy constantly sent me photos—his abs, his erect dick, his thighs—bragging how other women from Reddholics kept messaging him, how annoying it was.
I thought he was running some kind of photo exhibition. Still, his body was impressive, so I met him at a motel.
But technique? Nonexistent. He treated me like a masturbation tool.
Never in my life had I been attacked by someone's abs pressing into my stomach. I thought my insides would burst.
And as a parting gift? A sexually transmitted infection.
On the subway ride to the hospital, I almost tapped the Reddholics logout button—but held back.

Then I met him.

At first, he seemed immature, a little full of himself—nothing about him drew me in.
But then I read his posts. Surprisingly, they were thoughtful. Interesting, even.
So I sent him a message:

[Enjoyed your post. Would love to meet up sometime!]

He didn't read it.
What pissed me off was that he kept posting new stuff—so I knew he was online.
This bastard's ignoring my message. I felt awkward for no reason.

I went back in to send another message, pretending the first one was just a casual hello—when I saw a reply from him.
We'd been online at the same time. My heart suddenly fluttered.
It had been two days, but I clicked the inbox with a smug grin.

[Thanks. If it's fate, we'll meet. ^^]

Huh? Was he trolling me? Did he not understand Korean? Something felt off.
He came across as cold, dismissive. My irritation shot up to about two meters high.
I was used to exhausting myself shaking off clingy club guys who wouldn't let go—now I was being brushed off like this? Ridiculous.

But strangely, it sparked a competitive fire.
Who does he think he is, ignoring me?
Honestly, I'd posted photos in my profile—he must've checked me out.
Later, I asked. He said he hadn't even looked at my profile.

I scoured every post he'd ever written, found his messenger ID.
His profile picture? Just another average guy, the kind who probably got rejected everywhere.
I messaged casually, like it was nothing.

[Hi lol]

[Who's this?]

[It's me, XXX. I sent you a message before.]

Silence.
This guy clearly got tons of messages. I was annoyed. Maybe I should've just gone to a club instead.

[Ah, right. Hi ^^]

I'd taken dozens of profile photos and picked the most flattering one.
I used to be a model—if you don't fall for this, you're either castrated, or castrated, or castrated.

I already knew he was a thigh fetishist, so I'd changed my profile pic to a close-up of my thigh, my skirt slightly lifted.

Now it was your turn to fall for me.

But the more we talked, the less I could read him.
I was usually so good at decoding men—I could write a thesis on their minds—but he was different. Blunt. Funny.

Can't you see my photo? You totally zoomed in, didn't you!
I screamed it in my head, growing restless, then furious.
I snapped back to reality and found myself washing my face at the sink.

Back in bed, I reopened the chat.
There was another woman—her name identical to mine—begging him to meet her like she was insane.
What the hell? I kicked my blanket so hard I nearly broke it.
And yet, as I did, I admired my own legs—they're pretty, aren't they?—and smiled.

Ugh… I'm such an idiot.

Somehow, we ended up meeting.

I arrived at the train station, looked around—and saw a guy waving his hand wildly, grinning like he'd just reunited with family.
He was so cute, I couldn't help but smile.
Later, he told me he thought I smiled because he liked him.

We went to a coffee shop, talked.
But here's the thing: even though I'd messaged and met him for sex, I wasn't turned on at all.
It felt like meeting an old, close friend.
Nothing like the other Reddholics guys. Nothing like any guy I'd met before.

He felt… different. And clearly, he was smart.
Though sometimes he did dumb things, making me wonder which version was the real him.

As we walked out, a car passed right beside us.
Suddenly, he grabbed my wrist, pulling me close. I flinched slightly—nothing had hit me, but I was startled.

“You okay? Why's the driver driving like that…?”

His chest looked strangely broad. His breath smelled good.
Being close to him, I realized his presence was stronger than I'd expected.

I didn't know why, but I suddenly thought: Sex with this man will be good.
Before I could stop myself, I said:

“Let's skip dinner. Go to a motel.”

“???”

“I need to go up right away…”

“Okay. Sure.”

I'd been in hundreds of motels, but this time, I was oddly nervous.
Then he gently took my hand. Suddenly, I felt calm.

The motel had eight floors. While we waited for the elevator, time dragged.
He broke the silence.

“What are you thinking about?”

“…random things.”

He smiled.

“Want me to help you stop thinking?”

Suddenly, he turned and kissed me.
My face flushed instantly.
I knew the couple behind us must've been staring—but I was more scared of how red my face must've looked.

And since when were men's lips this soft? It wasn't even a real kiss—just a press of lips—and my panties were slightly damp.
Is he going to rip my panties off the second we get in? I wondered.

Just holding hands in the elevator, my heart pounded. Must've been the aftereffect of that kiss.
I couldn't stop imagining what he'd do to me in the room.
And the dampness in my panties? Impossible to ignore.

The VIP room was on the 8th floor. My ears tingled slightly from the height.
Then he reached behind my neck with his other hand, gently pressing. The dizziness vanished.
I pretended I was fine—but chills ran down my spine.

The room didn't smell like the usual motel disinfectant—nice.
I was still a little tense when he wrapped his arms around me from behind.

I'm extremely weak to back hugs. I could feel my face heating up.
Does my sweat smell? Is my hair stinky? A million thoughts raced through my head.
I'd slept with countless men—never once thought like this before.

I sat on the bed—or rather, on his lap—and we hugged, kissing.
He didn't shove his tongue in. Occasionally, he'd press his lips to mine, pull back slightly, look into my eyes, and smile.

That's when I first thought: This man is actually really attractive.

His kissing—gentle pressure with his lips, his tongue lightly testing me—was incredible.
Sure, I hadn't met a skilled guy in a while, but still—this was no joke.

Every time his hand brushed up the back of my neck, goosebumps rose. My nipples stiffened, clearly.
His forearm muscles rippled as he moved, never still.
Like he had a thousand hands, he touched me endlessly, kissing me into a frenzy.

Without removing a single piece of clothing, I felt completely naked.

He didn't even touch my chest—just tugged slightly at my shirt—and I could feel my nipples rubbing against the fabric.

Ah! He was clearly teasing me on purpose.

“Should I undress you?”

“No. I'll do it.”

I tried to get off his lap—but my legs gave out, and I collapsed onto the bed.

Shit…

He caught me with his arm and gently laid me down.
I started unbuttoning my shirt—but something felt off.

Wait… my bra's already undone…?

I looked at him, shocked. His face was flustered.

“No, I didn't mean to—I just… it's a habit…”

I was stunned. I'd seen guys unhook bras with one hand—but never someone who did it without even touching it.

Later, he told me that when he caught me falling, he instinctively pressed along the bra line.
My body weight had undone it.
What the hell! I laughed. He scratched his head, and I still had no idea what kind of man he was.

We went into the shower together.
I thought we were short on time—but turns out, we weren't.
I'll save that part for later. For now, I just felt like a daughter bathing with her dad.
Never had a man washed my feet so carefully.

He knelt on one knee, placed my foot on his thigh, and lathered it up.
I worried about foot odor—but was glad I'd exfoliated beforehand.
Then I realized my pussy was fully exposed—and turned beet red again.

Strangely, I kept getting turned on. Especially when he touched my thighs.
Definitely a thigh fetishist.

I'd heard the term body riding from a male friend—but never thought I'd experience it.
And I never knew a man's body could be so soft.

His dick felt heavier than expected.
When it slid slickly between my ass cheeks, grazing my pussy, I nearly moaned out loud.

Was he a host club guy? I briefly wondered—but no, host clubs don't have men like this.

Under the shower stream, he spread my legs and started licking from below.
He deliberately avoided my pussy, licking only around it.

I got so turned on, I grabbed his head and pulled it toward me.
I never thought I'd have the guts to do something like that.

I was used to faking moans—but this time, I didn't even think about it.
I just moaned. Loud.
Hearing my own voice echo in the shower made me even more aroused.
I finally understood why men grab a woman's head when she's sucking their dick—completely, madly.

Before we'd even had sex, I was a wild woman, grabbing his head, grinding, rubbing.
Later, he said I looked like I hadn't eaten in days—like I'd lost my mind.

Without realizing it, I grabbed his dick and bent my hips, trying to slide it inside.

He entered me from behind.
Later, when he went down on me, I checked—his shaft was average, but it thickened toward the tip.
If I hadn't been wet, it would've hurt.
But then thought vanished.

At first, he had me brace my hands against the bathroom wall, thrusting hard.
Then he shifted slightly—and the sensation changed.
It felt like flying, like an itch being scratched perfectly—intense, electric.
My moans changed automatically. My ass tensed. And he didn't miss a beat.

Suddenly, he stopped, lifted one of my legs, and placed it on the bathtub edge.
I was half-squatting, unbalanced—but then he started thrusting upward.

This man is insane.
It's so good.

He clearly noticed my moans had changed—he knew this spot was my erogenous zone—and focused on it relentlessly.

I'd had sex standing up before—but cumming while being fucked standing up? First time.
My legs trembled, but he held me from behind, keeping me from collapsing.

“Sorry… I got too excited… I couldn't help it…”

…(What a joke…)

He carried me to the bed. He wasn't light, nor particularly tall—but I felt bad, yet sensed immense strength.

The mood was great—until he started talking and ruined the vibe.
He said he usually went slow, but seeing me excited made him lose control, like a screw had come loose.

But damn, he talked a lot.
I thought, Is this just his style? and lay there—until I saw him get a water bottle from the mini-fridge and drink.

What a guy with zero manners toward women!

But then—coldness touched my lips.
He'd taken a sip, held the water in his mouth, and was gently letting it flow into mine.
I lifted my body slightly—it made drinking much easier.

Was it a kiss? Was I drinking water? Either way, I enjoyed it.
And of course, his hand was already roaming my body again.
My desire, which I thought had settled, flared back to life.

No, this man was like a puppet master.

I opened my eyes. My nipples were rock hard.
I thought even a paralyzed person would get wet if this man touched them.

I looked up without thinking—and he was staring at me.
His bangs were soaked, clinging to his forehead.
Cute… No—hot.

His profile picture had looked so average—but during sex, he looked different.
Was it because his face was hidden before?

Anyway, I felt bad just receiving, so I pushed him onto his back and climbed on top.

But I'd meant to straddle his dick—and ended up on his chest.
So I turned around and started sucking his cock.

We naturally fell into a 69.
I stopped overthinking and just sucked.
Thinking back, I'd slept with countless men—and had been told many times I was good at this.

I heard moans rising from below.
His voice was nice—made me even hornier.

But when I snapped back to reality, he was on top.
Somehow, without me noticing, we'd switched positions.

Earlier, while he was slowly licking me like a snake, he'd started turning—so slowly I didn't notice.
Then he began seriously pleasuring me.

Looking back, out of the hundreds of men I'd slept with, none had been as skilled at foreplay.
He was like an octopus, wrapping me up completely.

First, he distinguished my fake moans from real ones—remembered where I truly reacted—and attacked those spots without mercy.

It felt strangely… considerate, like he was taking care of me during sex.
It was clear how much experience he had.

He knew many positions—some I'd never seen before.
Like lifting both legs, bending one knee, pointing the other foot at the ceiling while thrusting.

It was genuinely amazing. I wanted to tell other men about it.
But of course, I couldn't—they'd hate it. Men's pride was no joke.

In a standard male superior position, he held me tightly, one arm lifting my neck—automatically locking me in place.
I couldn't move.
And he pounded me mercilessly below—so good, I nearly cried.
He clearly didn't like sex where our bodies were apart.

But here's the funny part: he sweated like it was raining, breathing heavily, looking like his dick could go soft any second—yet stayed rock hard, fucking me for six hours straight.

I thought he couldn't cum, so I apologized—

“Oh? Then I'll cum once and keep going.”

“???”

Then he came just one minute after resuming—and I shivered.
I'd never seen a man who could control his ejaculation like that.
He was like a sex machine.

…After having sex with this man, I won't be able to sleep with anyone else…

A sudden thought.

What amazed me most was afterward—lying face-to-face under the blanket.

Just a hand's width apart, making eye contact, talking.
No man had ever listened to me so attentively, caressed me so gently, kissed my cheek like that.

My actual boyfriend had never been this affectionate.

Later, when I cried over family issues, he held me, comforted me.
The sex had been incredible—but if this was aftercare, he understood women better than women themselves.

So when I asked if I could call him Daniel when we parted, I was serious—but he gave me a stern look, so I dropped it.

Later, I found out something heartbreaking.

He said if he couldn't satisfy a woman who came to sleep with him, he'd feel too guilty.
So on nights like that, he'd squeeze every last drop of energy from his body during sex.

The woman would leave satisfied—but he'd be bedridden the next day.

I felt so sorry for him, I told him next time, don't do that.

So from the second time on, he took it slow.
Like a special one-night-only relaxation package.

Still, he couldn't get up the next day—stayed overnight at the motel.
And then—morning sex.

Having sex while half-asleep made him look even more handsome.
The moment I saw him throw the blanket to the floor, sunlight shining on my glowing body, and start trembling as he gently caressed me—I got wet instantly.

His dick slid in slowly, so soft, so gentle, I thought I'd go crazy.

In the standard male superior position, he moved in and out incredibly slowly—killing me.
We kissed endlessly.

On our way out of the motel, he bought me grapefruit juice.
I sucked on the straw as we walked up the hill—and realized: this ridiculous man did everything for a reason.

For months afterward, every time I drank grapefruit juice, I thought of him.
And every time I thought of him, my lower body burned.

Eventually, I couldn't drink grapefruit juice at all.