Chapter 1 — That Woman

Grace Park. Yes, definitely past forty.

Yet at first glance, she looks like she's in her thirties.

Some might say there's not much difference between thirty and forty, but the woman I've met is well into her late forties.

So the distinction matters.

Then why does she look so young?

She's a woman who adores grooming and appearance. Her skin tone is bright, radiant.

But the real reason is that her body is exceptionally small.

Not dwarf-like, of course—just petite in height and build, slightly plump.

So even in the same clothes, she appears youthful, cute.

Moreover, she always wears skirts instead of pants, and frequently uses stockings to make her legs appear longer.

That's why we often dated inside the car.

The confined space of an automobile not only concealed her less advantageous physique but also made physical contact easier.

In truth, this woman wasn't an easy partner just because she was small.

If anything, she compensated for her physical limitations with a sharp, icy temperament that refused to be underestimated.

Whenever she felt slighted or dissatisfied, rather than raising her head—which was hard given her height—she'd glare up from behind her square-framed glasses, piercingly demanding explanations until she extracted apologies or concessions from others. Her colleagues at work tended to avoid talking to her whenever possible.

As a result, she had few friends or peers around her. Strong, yet lonely.

But this very nature earned favor among meticulous merchants—her ability to turn numerous shops in famous market alleys into loyal clients won her superiors' trust.

I first encountered her personally at a special lecture hosted by a public institution.

A renowned economics doctor was giving a three-day talk on East Asian future management. During the Q&A session, a woman suddenly raised her hand high and mentioned the name of my company.

I was startled. I wasn't the only one from our company who had voluntarily attended.

Here she was, sitting in the front row, attentively listening to a dull, uninteresting business topic. She looked different.

So I invited her to eat, and we met.

It was around this season. I suggested going to see the full bloom of flowers, and she agreed.

We drove to Seongnam Su-jin Park, where cherry blossoms were in full bloom.

Walking slowly along the flower-lined path, we began what wasn't quite a date—but felt like one.

She had never been to Su-jin Park before and seemed thoroughly pleased, not hiding her childlike, innocent delight.

Then a young couple asked us to take their photo. After taking it, they said we looked good together and asked if they could take one of us too, handing over their phone camera.

But suddenly, she showed signs of displeasure.

The problem was that I had handed over the phone without asking her—but upon realizing it, I understood: her short stature created an unbalanced composition, triggering a deep-seated complex.

Standing on a bench would highlight how small she was; standing beside me, the difference in face height was too stark. She backed away as if fleeing.

So I quickly grabbed her, wrapped my arms around her thighs, and lifted her up abruptly.

She screamed in surprise.

At that moment, the photo was taken. Despite struggling, the young man cleverly snapped a few more shots.

In the end, she didn't seem to mind. While scolding me for my impulsive act, she smiled brightly.

On the drive back, she apologized for her complex.

She called herself a workaholic. A woman who found joy in labor, who saw friendship and companionship as unnecessary, believing victory through performance was natural.

Her late marriage to an older man, she said, had been an unavoidable choice due to the weakness of her small frame.

Perhaps that was why, whenever she heard stories of others' sweet memories, she felt especially vulnerable—because she had so few of her own.

My lifting her in the park must have moved her deeply.

When we shared our first embrace in the car, she didn't move her lips at all—only her breathing was audible.

She seemed like a middle-aged woman utterly unsure how to respond.

Even when my hands brushed against her protruding breasts, her body didn't flinch.

When I hastily slipped a hand between her legs, she finally jolted in shock—but through the brief contact with her short panties, I could feel intense heat and dampness pooling in her cleft.

We ended up at a motel along the west coast, near Ganghwa Island's vast tidal flats, where dark mud glistened with water, blurring the line between land and sea.

As soon as she saw the room, she began questioning why every wall and ceiling was covered in mirrors reflecting us.

Then she spotted the round waterbed, a plate holding flower-shaped packaged condoms, and a sign offering the latest masturbation vibrators upon request—and suddenly played coy, pretending she had just realized the nature of the place.

I lifted her again, hoisting her onto my shoulders for a piggyback ride.

Held high, her head nearly touching the ceiling, she screamed.

Having always lived under others' gazes, looking down at me seemed both shocking and thrilling.

She clung tightly to my neck like a child.

While kissing, I rubbed her neck, shoulders, and breasts in turn.

As we fell onto the bed, I continued downward with my mouth.

She couldn't bear the tickling. That sensitivity became her weakness—her defenses crumbled, and I finally got to see her swollen mound, puffy like a baby's plump cheek.

Afraid she'd retreat into defensive habits if I delayed, I immediately pressed my mouth to her slit—but she accused me of being an animal for not washing first.

But power was already mine. I held her panties in my hand. What could she do now but struggle?

I told her washing wasn't necessary.

I was fully capable of enduring whatever uncleanliness there was.

Washing would only leave common soap scent—erasing her unique, intimate musk I wanted to taste.

Perhaps one advantage of her small size: strangely, the circumference of my open mouth perfectly matched her vulva.

As the stale smell of urine and a sour tang coated my tongue, I instantly sensed the depth of her pussy.

Even as she clawed at my hair, trying to push my head away, I stubbornly licked deeper. Her legs were trapped between my elbows—she couldn't move.

Time was on my side.

By the time I had sucked out the lingering stench of urine, change was inevitable for her.

The hands that had yanked my hair softened, gradually cradling my head, then began rocking her hips, muffling her breath in strained silence.

Seizing the moment, I pulled down my pants and revealed my erect cock—jutting out like a pillar.

“Oh… oh my!”

Startled, she hesitated briefly, then murmured that this was the first time she'd seen another man's penis besides her husband's.

Despite knowing she was married, that statement somehow felt fresh.

Part of me felt sorrow, but those words stirred a sense of responsibility within me.

I wanted to truly make her enjoy it.

Semen, no less than the cock itself, is difficult to hold back.

Knowing this was a new partner, millions of sperm erupted violently from my testicles.

The instant I guided the tip of my cock to her vaginal opening, I had to recall military training days to suppress my excitement.

She must have noticed my strange expression, because she asked if I was okay.

To avoid embarrassment, I thrust my cock in immediately.

Her face froze in shock.

After dozens of strokes, her color turned red.

“Hah… hah… hah…” She struggled to catch her breath, then asked:

“Have you cheated?”

“Y-yes…”

“…”

“I'm… how am I? Is it okay?”

“Of course!”

“I've… never done this with anyone else. Not since my husband…”

“What an honor.”

“It's nothing special, right?”

“Huh?”

“I said—it's nothing special.”

“…!”

I mistakenly thought she meant my cock was unremarkable. But she was actually saying cheating wasn't such a big deal after all.

“Can we keep doing this for a long time?”

“Of course.”

“A day. A week. No—a month…”

“…”

She sighed quietly.

She seemed relieved, yet behind her back loomed a shadow larger than her small frame.

“If you're tired, you should rest.”

“Should I? Like this—with my section chief?”

“If I can help, anytime.”

“Oh… hohoho…”

“Open your heart. Relax completely.”

“Like this?”

“No. More.”

“…”

“You can't truly open your body unless your heart opens first. Right now, you're still hiding, closing yourself off.”

“……”

“If you told me to strip naked and dance Gangnam Style, I'd do it.”

“…”

“What's wrong? It's my body. You're shrinking for no reason, refusing to let yourself be comfortable.”

“…………”

Your body has cooled down.

“So… do I have to know how to dance Gangnam Style too?”

She laughed weakly, rising to her feet.

But her movement didn't seem like an attempt to escape—more like an effort to express something.

I caught her as she wobbled on the unstable waterbed cushion.

“You don't have to go that far… I just mean the heart matters most.”

Then we sat facing each other.

Up close, her face resembled a small, round buttock—her cheeks plump and soft.

I kissed her again.

This time, more leisurely.

Our noses brushed, her breath flowed into my neck, and the unmistakable scent of another person's body stirred my heart deeply.

Since the position was slightly awkward, I stretched my legs forward so she could straddle me.

We became one again.

Did she realize, then, that impulses long dormant were awakening?

She cautiously grasped my upright cock and slowly lifted one leg.

“Oh… h-huh…… huh…………”

Sitting directly on top, her body weight pressed down fully—driving my cock all the way to the cervix.

For a petite vagina, it was inevitably a stretch.

With the slightest motion, she opened her mouth wide like a fish pulled from water.

So I kissed her again, sucked her nipples, and shook them gently.

A pussy truly is a masterpiece.

Compressed within her tight walls, every minor stimulation magnified through my cock, shaking my brain with intensity.

Finally, I felt I possessed her completely—so much so that I wanted to confess love to her.

She couldn't hide her own emotion either.

“Ha… hak…… good… ah… hak… good……”

We began swaying in similar rhythm.

Like riding a floating tube on water, she followed the undulating cushion of the waterbed and rotated her hips surprisingly well.

When waves of pleasure hit, she clenched her eyes shut and opened her mouth toward the ceiling.

I had to support her back to keep her from sliding off.

But then she started bouncing higher.

She adapted quickly.

Within minutes of initial groaning due to her small size, her pussy swallowed my entire cock and began riding harder.

A scream escaped her lips.

Her head thrashed wildly, as if demented.

Her petite frame belied immense strength.

Now, if I didn't grip her pelvis tightly, my cock might slip out—and her bucking ass could crush me beneath.

“Uuuh……mm……mm…!………… Aaaah!!……aaa…… ”

She was a tiny Hulk. A sudden transformation. Excitement had conquered her, paralyzing reason.

Forgetting depth, she bounced like a rabbit, upper body heaving.

Her hair and nipples swung violently.

And I, preoccupied with stability, failed to notice her convulsions beginning.

I thought her face was just twisting momentarily—until I realized she was still moving despite having stopped breathing.

I discovered it too late—just as I tried to pull her sideways!

“Oh…!……Oh… ohhh…!!!……Oh… e-e-eeng…!!!!!……Kkeuk…!… ”

It sounded like a wolf's howl.

Her eyes rolled white, pupils vanishing, jaw dropping as if shot, shoulders trembling.

Then suddenly, she kicked me away, bolted upright, and shivered violently—entire body quivering like a leaf.

And droplets falling.

Urine.

She sprayed intermittently, just like a man ejaculating.

My cock soaked in the warm liquid.

I didn't pull away. Softly, I asked if she was okay.

After some time, her pale face cracked into a weak, crooked smile. She pulled her hand from mine and collapsed sideways, crashing onto the bed.

Then she didn't move. Seemed like she'd fallen asleep.

I couldn't do what I wanted.

My cock, doused by her unexpected hot stream of urine, had gone limp.

And not wanting to further stimulate her to exhaustion, I wet a towel and gently laid it over her steaming, sticky pussy.

Awakening to the cool sensation, she gave a faint, silly smile. The harsh, prickly senior colleague was nowhere to be seen.