Chapter 1 — The Divorced Women I've Known

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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As my company slowly found its footing, I hired a few more employees and shifted my focus from managing the site to sales. Work became more enjoyable, and during this time, I got involved with two women.

Emma Lee, in her early thirties—petite and stylish—and Grace Park, two years older than me, calm and intelligent. The two women were almost complete opposites in style, personality, and atmosphere.

While Emma Lee laughed easily and talked freely, Grace Park was usually the one listening to me.

One night, after drinking, Emma Lee—who had been quiet for a while—finally opened up and told me everything.

Back in her mid-twenties, she'd been working at a mid-tier hair salon when she met a man she thought was just an ordinary office worker. But when she got pregnant and started living with him, she discovered he was actually helping out in a loan shark's business. "Helping" was just a euphemism—everyone knew what kind of work those men did. During their courtship, she hadn't noticed, but after moving in together, she realized how rough he was, turning violent whenever he drank.

After having a child, they officially registered their marriage, but things only got worse. His drug use and violence escalated until her parents filed a police report, leading to their divorce.

She swore she'd never date another man again and lived that way for a while. But one of her regular male customers had always been kind to her, and eventually, they started dating. Despite raising a child as a single mother, he accepted everything and proposed marriage.

Hair salons, she said, were actually decent places to work. Sure, they strained your wrists and joints, but if you were careful, even a small neighborhood shop could bring in over three million won a month—enough for a man to comfortably stay home.

Her new husband had been working steadily until he got into a big fight at his company and quit. After that, he showed no interest in finding another job, just loafing around as a freeloader. She felt grateful he was helping with her child, so she waited patiently, thinking he'd return to work soon. But more than a year passed, and he still hadn't lifted a finger.

That's when her ex-husband showed up, causing chaos. Her current husband, now jobless, started wandering outside and racked up a huge credit card debt—using her card to spend several thousand.

The mess with her ex and the credit card debt became the final straw. She ended the cohabitation, barely managed to pay off the debt, and was finally catching her breath when someone introduced her to another man. They started dating, but her ex-husband showed up again, causing another scene.

Because her ex kept showing up at her home and salon, she had to be extremely cautious about everything.

Grace Park's story was different. Her husband had first run a small shop, which eventually closed. Then he took over a bar previously run by a senior, but soon became involved with the madam. At first, he used drinking as an excuse to stay out overnight. When the truth came out, he openly moved in with the madam.

When Grace Park asked for a divorce, he demanded they split the proceeds from selling the apartment under her name. Furious, she filed for adultery charges. Eventually, they settled—she kept the apartment, and he left with nothing.

I never heard his side, so I can't say for sure, but whenever I see divorce, it seems both men and women become a little petty.

After Emma Lee's ex-husband was arrested for violence, she seemed relieved and started contacting me more often.

One night, after a few drinks and karaoke, we kissed—deep and sweet.

Leaving the karaoke room, we stood awkwardly, unsure where to go. I completely ignored her suggestion to meet up later and practically dragged her into a motel.

Emma Lee kissed me like she'd forgotten how to breathe, lost in the moment. She finally paused, catching her breath and sitting down.

"Um… It's been a long time since I've been with anyone… I'm barely holding back…"

She wanted it—she was just struggling to admit it. But if we slept together now, it would mean committing to something more. Was I ready to take responsibility?

I didn't know why it felt so complicated, but once again, I realized men and women think about sex very differently.

Still, leaving her like that—aroused and vulnerable—felt wrong. And honestly, someone like me, raised with manners, couldn't just walk away.

I moved closer, kissed her again, and pulled her up.

When I tightly wrapped my arms around her waist, she clung to my neck, meeting my lips. Unlike before, she frantically rubbed her lips against mine, sucking hungrily, her whole body trembling with need.

I turned off all the lights except the lamp and slowly undressed her. Her breathing stayed heavy and uneven. When I removed her bra, she shivered. When I pulled down her panties, a soft moan slipped out—proof of how long she'd gone without intimacy.

I stripped and took her into the shower, lathering her body myself.

I didn't use a towel—just my hands. She was at an age when a woman's body is most sensitive. Even though only foam covered her, the way she trembled and softly moaned told me everything.

After the shower, I laid her on the bed and began to warm her up.

I found the ear hidden beneath her thick waves, gently biting it before trailing kisses down her neck to her shoulder, sucking softly.

I returned to her other ear, then her opposite shoulder—nothing more—but she gripped my hand tightly, her hips beginning to sway. When I caressed her back, her hands couldn't stay still, sweeping across the sheets.

My lips and tongue roamed her back, biting and sucking her sides. Her body twisted violently, as if she couldn't control herself. When I reached her hips and buttocks, a low "Uuuh…" muffled into the pillow. As I moved to her thighs and behind her knees, her upper body jerked, unable to stay still.

Seeing her like this—after however many years of abstinence—I decided to give her the fantasy she'd been dreaming of.

I moved back up and saw her face flushed red. But I knew that wasn't enough. I found her lips again—she sucked mine wildly, her body clearly overheated.

I cupped her right breast, slowly kneading it. As I sucked her lips, she gasped, a small moan slipping out. When I finally took her nipple into my mouth, a loud cry filled the room.

"Ah…"

Her breasts weren't large or small—just right. But because no one had touched them in so long, her whole body shivered the moment I sucked. I bit and sucked her nipple, feeling her tremble.

"Ah… God… I'm going crazy… Ah… How… Ah…"

Had years without sex made her body stiff? Or easier to arouse? I couldn't confirm whether she'd been celibate, but judging by her words, a woman's body does become more sensitive after a long drought.

My lips traveled down her waist to her lower abdomen. I could feel her body trembling more intensely. As I sucked her thighs and knees, I saw light reflecting off the wetness between her legs. When I slowly moved inward and sucked, soft moans began to spill out.

"Ah… Uh… Uh… Ah… Ah… Ah…"

Her soaked slit needed no further inspection. When I found her clit and touched it with my tongue, her moans erupted—mixed with words I didn't expect.

"Ah… How… Ah… It's good… So good… My pussy… Ah… It feels strange… My pussy… Ah…"

At first, I thought I'd misheard. But no—she definitely said "pussy."

I knew women rarely used words like "dick" or "pussy," and it felt odd coming from Emma Lee, barely past thirty. But strangely, her blunt language only turned me on more.

Even as I sucked her clit, she kept saying "pussy"—and honestly, it wasn't wrong.

"Ah… I'm going crazy… My pussy… It feels strange… Ah… I'm gonna lose it… My pussy… Ah…"

I slid a finger inside—just as expected, her pussy was soaked, sucking my finger like it was starving. As I moved my finger around, her excitement peaked. She lifted her hips, moaning and crying out nonstop.

"Ugh… It's so good… So good… I'm gonna lose it… How… How… Good… Ah…"

With my left hand kneading her breast and my mouth on her clit, my right hand fingered her pussy. She moaned and whimpered without pause, her voice thick with emotion.

"Ugh… Ugh… I'm going crazy… You suck my pussy so well… How… Hic… Hic…"

No matter how soundproof the motel was, her rising voice started to embarrass me. I had no choice but to cover her mouth with my hand.

But with my hand over her mouth, I couldn't suck her clit anymore. So I switched—sucking her breast with my mouth while my right hand rubbed both her pussy and clit.

But Emma Lee, already overheated, kept crying out loudly.

"Mmm… I'm going crazy… Ah… Ah… How… How… Ah… Ah…"

I could feel her pussy warm up and flood with liquid when I sucked her clit—the first orgasm. Then again, as my fingers filled her, I felt it happen once more.

There was no pause—her moans kept rising. I couldn't hold back anymore. I just barely pressed my dick against her pussy, and her whole body shivered.

Slowly, I pushed my hips forward, sliding my dick inside. She tightly wrapped her arms around my neck, sucking wildly at my lips and neck.

Her pussy was wet enough to take my dick easily. Wanting it deeper, she lifted her hips, her eyes locking onto mine—hypnotic.

She looked at me, but her focus was already gone. Her eyes were on me, but her entire awareness was centered on her pussy.

My slow thrusts gradually grew stronger. When I touched her breasts, her body shivered again. Her face twisted with pleasure as she pushed her hips up, pulling me closer, screaming.

"Out… How… How… I'm gonna die… I'm gonna die… Uh… Uh… Ugh… Ugh…"

She climaxed again, but for me, this was just the beginning. I flipped her over, pushed my dick into her from behind, and thrust hard—her rising moans impossible to silence.

Emma Lee, who seemed so cheerful and bright—how could her moans be so loud? I didn't expect this at all. I pushed her face into the pillow and shook her, but after a moment, she turned her head, gasping for air.

I had no choice but to lay her back flat and keep thrusting.

She was so loud I was almost afraid to thrust too hard.

If someone was in the next room, they'd definitely be annoyed. If it was a man alone, he'd probably be cursing me under his breath.

But my dick was already reacting—I couldn't stop now. I had to finish quickly. I tried focusing on random things—like singing the national anthem in my head—but it worked too well. I was in full control.

I pictured random female celebrities, moving faster, but with Emma Lee's moans distracting me, it was useless.

Her moans grew louder again. I covered her mouth with my hand, thrusting hard—she climaxed once more, pulling me tightly around the neck, shaking her hips. Then, for a moment, she clung to me before collapsing onto the bed.

"Just… Ah… Just let me rest a bit… I'm tired… I'm tired… Let me rest a little…"

She ignored my still-throbbing dick, lying flat on the bed. In a moment, she fell asleep—her face still flushed, sweat glistening on her skin.

As I looked at her, I felt bad for my dick, but I didn't want to wake her.

Her abusive ex was in jail. Her salon was closed tomorrow. After years without sex, maybe she'd finally found peace and happiness in a deep, comfortable sleep. I didn't dare turn on the TV, afraid of waking her, so I stayed awake, lost in thought, until I finally dozed off.

The next morning, I woke up to find Emma Lee still asleep. I quietly got up, showered as quietly as possible, and left for work.

Around eleven, I got a call from her—still half-asleep. I wanted to meet for lunch, but I had a prior commitment. I felt bad for not being able to pick her up.

A few days later, while returning to Seoul from a trip, Grace Park called.

Her daughter was away on a Girl Scout trip for two days, giving her rare free time. She said she'd been bothered by how we'd parted last time and wanted to buy me a drink.

When she asked what I liked to eat, I replied with my usual catchphrase:

"I eat anything… Hahaha… As long as it's tuna sashimi, anything goes… Hahaha…"

We agreed to meet halfway. But traffic was bad, so I had to drive. She called ahead, saying she'd found a tuna place and was waiting.

Meeting felt a bit awkward at first, but after a few shots of soju, the mood softened. She said she'd heard from a friend about my divorce and offered sympathy—but sympathy like that often kills the mood.

I changed the subject, asking about her insurance work. When I asked if it was tough, her answer was vague.

Dealing with people was always hard, she said, but the hardest part was the prejudice—people always assuming insurance women were shady.

When I pressed, she paused, then opened up.

About 20–30% of them, she said, worked unethically—some luring in naive clients, others sleeping with married men to close deals. It happened more than people knew.

The previous manager, she said, would assign contracts she'd secured to others and go out with them to restaurants or love motels—gossip was rampant.

When I asked if her colleague from last time was the same, she hesitated, then said they weren't close, but the woman wasn't the type to flirt easily. She believed that if two people genuinely liked each other, and they kept their families intact while filling emotional gaps, it wasn't necessarily wrong.

True to my nature, I asked directly:

"You've probably heard about me. I don't seem like your type. Why choose me?"

She paused, drank a shot of soju, and began.

She'd always known there was no such thing as a free lunch. But in insurance, she felt it deep in her bones. When a client finally agreed to sign, men expected dinner—and drinks afterward. Coworkers went without question. At first, she didn't understand. But after experiencing months where she barely met her quota—months when she wouldn't get her allowance—she couldn't blame them.

She'd had a long talk with the new manager—someone young, open-minded, not stuck in old ways.

Later, when she failed to meet her quota again, the manager quietly called her on deadline day and handed her two contracts.

Grateful, she offered to buy him a drink, but he brushed it off, saying "Next time."

The next month, she struggled again. On deadline day, he handed her three more contracts—five total. She noticed all the clients were named Jeong Jae-woo.

She asked, and he said they were his friends, promising to introduce them if she had time.

She realized that if she worked hard, she wouldn't need to buy the manager drinks—or meet me. But ignoring him meant risking her job.

If the manager didn't help, it wasn't just about money—it was about whether she'd get her own agency based on performance. And for a moment, she'd considered easier paths.

After struggling, she told the manager she wanted to meet me. He said, "Just go easy," and set up the meeting.

She'd heard a bit about me and thought we could be good friends—that's why she called.

We emptied our soju glasses, laughing and talking easily. After she came back from the restroom, she spoke awkwardly.

"I'm two years older… but let's be good, relaxed friends."

She held out her hand, as if for a handshake. I pretended not to see it, and she awkwardly pulled it back.

"I already have plenty of friends… I don't need more—male or female."

Too direct? Maybe. But she seemed like the type who'd use "friendship" as packaging to serve her own interests. Suddenly, I didn't feel like seeing her long-term.

The mood turned awkward. I told a few funny stories to lighten it, then went to the restroom. When I came back, she said she'd already paid.

"You don't look athletic, but you're quick… I thought you'd treat me to dinner. Kind of a letdown…"

"I was worried you'd order something expensive… This time I paid, so next time it's your turn."

"We'll see… If the chance comes, sure. Ready to go?"

"Wait… I heard the manager says you understand women well, but I think he's wrong. I know younger women don't talk like this, but in my generation, saying 'let's be friends' is the most appropriate way. You just don't get it…"

"It's not that I don't get it—I just didn't want to misunderstand. You meant something by it, but I don't think every woman says it with the same intention. And I'm not attracted to people hiding behind self-protective walls, unable to express themselves clearly."

Grace Park said nothing. I thanked her for dinner, and we left. I hailed her a taxi, saying I'd drive later or call a driver since I had my car.

I'd said my piece. I wasn't staying long. The choice was hers.

I bought a cup of coffee from a roadside stand, lit a cigarette, and waited leisurely.

She either didn't understand me—or she did. If she didn't contact me again, or just sent a formal "got home safe" text, that'd be her rejection. If she came back, she'd be accepting my terms. Either way, I wouldn't lose.

I waited—an hour, out of courtesy.

I'd waited long enough. I got out of the car, testing if I could drive. I could—but I'd definitely fail a breathalyzer. Just as I decided to call a driver—

"You shouldn't drive… I passed by and saw police doing breath tests."

I didn't know how long she'd been behind me. Her showing up like this was unexpected, but not unpleasant.

She used a simple excuse to come back. I didn't know when she'd arrived, but she'd been watching me, thinking things over. She was waiting for me.

"I almost wanted to reverse the car earlier… Could've been bad…"

"You should've reversed. You wouldn't die. And an insurance woman wouldn't be caught without insurance, right?"

She joked back, relaxed—her decision made. We left the car at a seafood restaurant's parking lot and walked. She slipped her arm through mine, leaning in.

"A guy like you could have younger, prettier women. Why me?"

"I never said I liked you. I just said I didn't want more friends."

"You're mean…"

She lightly hit me—no playfulness, just flat. But the "no flirtation" thing I'd heard? Wrong.

No matter how blunt a woman seems, once she decides, flirtation comes naturally. It just varies by person. And right now, Grace Park was no exception.

A motel came into view. As we walked, Grace Park kept her head down. I steered us into a nearby beer house, ordering another round.

I told jokes, trying to ease her tension.

Different from earlier—whether she'd relaxed or made up her mind, I didn't know—but she talked more, laughed brighter. Good to see.

We stayed over an hour. As we left, she linked arms and said:

"Tomorrow's Saturday. Let's both call in sick. Sleep in late, have brunch, go on a picnic."

Back at the motel, I tried to make her comfortable. But she grew quiet, tense. Dragging it out wouldn't help.

I slowly pulled her close.

I struggled to find her lips, but once our mouths met, I felt her body slowly release its tension.

Her eyes gently closed, all focus on her lips. My hand around her waist contrasted with her hands, unsure where to go. I pulled her tighter—she wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed me more eagerly.

Slim-built, her breasts weren't large. But little things—like handing me a toothbrush in the shower—showed care. This is what dating an older woman is like, I thought.

Unexpectedly, after the shower, while I stood drying my hair, she came from behind, wrapping her arms around me. Slowly, she caressed my back, kissing down to my buttocks, sucking and stroking. Then she reached in, touching my balls.

I was surprised—Grace Park, who seemed so passive, was being aggressively affectionate. But I welcomed it, savoring the stimulation.

She turned me around, gently took my erect dick into her mouth, and started sucking.

Soft yet firm, her hands never stopped caressing my balls. She pushed me onto the bed, straddling it, her face over my hips, sucking my dick while still touching my balls.

More than skill, it was her sincerity that turned me on. Small, but at her late-thirties age, her body wasn't worn out—she gave it her all.

I tried my best, but honestly, it was underwhelming.

Later, I realized: poor chemistry. I still don't fully understand that night.

It wasn't bad—it wasn't even bland. It just… wasn't anything. I still can't find the right word, then or now.

But we slept comfortably, had hangover soup in the morning. I dropped her off near her house to change, then picked her up again.

She'd bought a picnic basket but never used it—now she finally did, packing way more food than we could eat.

We wanted to go far, but traffic was terrible. We settled on Nanjido, spread out the food, lay down, talked, and returned home in the afternoon.

We met a few more times. Had sex once or twice more. Nothing special. She probably felt the same. Our calls gradually faded. In the meantime, I reconnected with Emma Lee, then met someone else—naturally, we drifted apart.

I'd never thought chemistry mattered much. I assumed my lack of enthusiasm was just disinterest or obligation. But that experience taught me exactly what "poor chemistry" really meant.

A few days later, Emma Lee called again.

Her ex-husband's parents had visited, begging her to give him another chance for the child's sake.

She was conflicted. Many kids grow up without fathers, but imagining the emotional scars made her uneasy. Remarrying wasn't simple either—especially with an ex who could show up anytime, unannounced.

I didn't have the right words. Frustrated, I picked her up and drove to Incheon.

Not much to see, but I took her to Wolmido anyway, for the sea air. We walked a lot.

We didn't talk much. I just tried to make her feel at ease. The cool wind and ocean scent seemed to clear her chest a little.

Back in Seoul, instead of heading straight home, we stopped for coffee by the Han River.

Suddenly, a downpour sent us rushing back to the car.

Cars quickly emptied. We stayed, watching the rain, listening to music—until she asked to park in a quiet spot.

I asked why.

"I've always wanted to try car sex."

Knowing her loud moans, I parked in the most secluded spot I could find.

The falling rain was a blessing—few people out in this weather.

The rain made the car humid fast. The position was awkward, but I did my best. I'd had bad memories of car sex, so I paid extra attention undressing.

She climbed over to the passenger seat, straddled me, and started moving—moaning loudly, breasts bouncing, hips swaying.

The music and raindrops were drowned out by her screams. The car shook with her moans and movements.

Even in this cramped position, she screamed her fill. Worried, I slid my underwear under my dick and held her hips to steady her—she screamed even louder as she climaxed.

"Ah… I'm dying… Ugh… My pussy aches… Ah… My pussy feels strange… How… Come…"

If it hadn't rained, and she'd suggested car sex, I'd have definitely hidden the license plate.

I thanked the rain again, shaking her hips for a while until I finally felt my own climax rising.

Exhausted, she leaned on my chest, breathing hard.

"Just a little more," I said.

She knew what I wanted. She gathered strength, swaying again—then climaxed once more before I said I was close. She slid down, took my dick into her mouth, and started sucking, hand jerking me off.

People are different, but for me, pussy was comfortable—but oral made me hold back more, making the climax even more intense.

I erupted, shooting load after load into her cupped hand. She swallowed, then took my dick back in, squeezing out the last drop. When my body shuddered, she stared, wide-eyed, as if seeing it for the first time.

My ears rang from her screams—but she looked satisfied as she dressed, lying down quietly.

I carefully pulled up my pants, lay beside her a moment, then drove her home.

That was the last time I had sex with Emma Lee.

They'd met a few more times, but she'd decided to give her ex another chance—because of his tearful plea and for the child's sake.

Years passed. Last year, I ran into her by chance.

I was at a friend's, staying up all night drinking, playing a card game, then heading for hangover soup and a sauna. I passed by "Cho Emma Lee Hair Salon" and thought—No way—and peeked inside.

Emma Lee, looking out the window, met my eyes.

I invited her for coffee, but I was with others, so I politely declined, saying I'd stop by next time.

Then a man who looked like her husband came out and greeted me.

He didn't seem like her ex. Probably same age or a year or two younger. She introduced him as a former regular customer. We exchanged quick hellos and parted.

Seeing him in the salon in broad daylight, it was clear—he was a shutter man.