Chapter 1 — The Friend Who Visited Our Newlywed One-Room Apartment

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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A submission from someone I met on Tumblr.

I remember staying over at my friend's place several times after their wedding, so this doesn't feel like someone else's story at all.

Though back then, I always slept in the living room.

Later, when I heard my friend's side, they said even though the bedroom door was closed, being intimate while someone else was sleeping in the living room felt completely different—intense in a way only that situation could make possible.

I've had similar experiences too—when my friends stayed over at our place, sleeping in the living room or another room, and we were still intimate. It was electrifying.

My wife would resist at first, but in the end, she'd bite back her moans and take me inside her.

And the friend sleeping in the living room? The next morning, he'd send me a strange, knowing smile.

Back in our youth, when friends started getting married one after another, there was one friend who married last.

His particular hobby? Visiting newlywed couples at their homes.

At that time, most young people started married life in a tiny one-room apartment, relying solely on love, with no financial cushion.

Of course, some had better circumstances—some even lived with their in-laws, sharing the same house under certain conditions.

But most of us lived in rented rooms—single rooms where the bathroom and kitchen were combined, and you even took showers right there.

And it was precisely these cramped, difficult newlywed homes that my friend loved to visit.

Finally, he came to our one-room apartment.

I'd already heard vague rumors about him.

As a netorare-type husband, I inwardly welcomed him. Imagining the intense scene that might unfold tonight, I shared dinner with him.

There was no TV back then, so we didn't have much to do. We played drinking games with hanafuda cards—slapping each other's arms, giving playful head-taps—laughing and roughhousing.

My new bride kept giving me meaningful glances, silently urging me to send the friend away.

But this guy had clearly come with a plan, and I, in fact, wanted him to stay overnight.

So I ignored my wife's signals and kept drinking and playing until late into the night—until finally, it was time to sleep.

I lay down in the middle. My wife on the left. My friend on the right.

As soon as we lay down, the bold friend suddenly rolled over.

“Hey, man… I've never slept next to a woman before. Let me try it just once,” he said, crawling toward the center.

My wife jolted upright in shock, scrambling over to cling to me.

I held her gently, whispering in her ear: Don't make a scene. Just stay quiet. Can't you imagine how hard it must be for a guy like him?

And so the night deepened.

In the darkness, I slowly realized—the sleeping order had changed.

Now I was on the far left. My friend in the middle. My wife on the far right.

I gathered my wits, focusing every sense on what had happened.

My friend had pushed me aside and moved next to my wife.

Now, they were lying side by side, with him spooning her from behind.

I didn't know what time it was. I didn't know when this shift had happened. But the uncertainty gnawed at me—had something already occurred? What would happen next?

Curiosity and anticipation kept me wide awake.

Eventually, dawn broke.

I fell asleep then—overcome by exhaustion and deep disappointment.

At some point, I heard my wife's voice.

“Stop… please, stop now.”

I woke up instantly.

My wife bolted upright and rushed out of the room.

My friend, meanwhile, pretended to be fast asleep, snoring softly.

I started imagining.

He must've woken up in the early morning, hard and aching, and taken my wife right there.

Just thinking about it made me stiffen.

That day, my friend left.

That night, alone with my wife, I caressed her slowly, building her arousal until she was trembling with excitement.

Then I asked, “What happened with my friend last night?”

She flinched in surprise, insisting nothing had happened.

When I asked why the friend had ended up sleeping next to her, I told her I'd woken up to find my position shifted like that too.

She hesitated, then confessed.

At first, she thought it was me. She nestled into his arms, embracing him.

Half-asleep, he started caressing her—lifting her top, touching her breasts, sliding his hand down into her underwear.

He pushed his fingers inside her, probing deeply.

At first, the sensation felt good—so good she didn't realize it wasn't me.

But something felt… off.

She opened her eyes—and realized it wasn't her husband.

Panicked, she broke free with all her strength and rolled away.

Her heart pounded so hard she could barely breathe.

I asked again. “Is that all? Nothing else happened?”

She said he kept trying to touch her, pulling her close again and again, but she resisted fiercely—so nothing else happened.

I laughed bitterly. “What a missed opportunity. I heard that guy's cock is huge. Why didn't you just let him have you once?”

After all, he'd already touched your breasts, fingered you, sucked you—what's the difference?

She snapped, “Would you really want your wife to be treated like that?”

I felt guilty—like I didn't trust her innocence.

We made up.

Alone, I indulged in my own fantasies, replaying that night with my wife in my mind—hot, desperate, unforgettable.

The next day, I called my friend to my office.

I confronted him head-on, furious.

“You bastard. I know everything you did to my wife last night. How could you do that to me?”

I glared, clenching my fists like I might punch him any second.

He immediately apologized, hands clasped in desperation.

“I'm sorry… I didn't mean to. I was half-asleep, touching and sucking without thinking… I just couldn't hold back. I only did it once. I'm so sorry.”

I was stunned.

My wife said nothing happened.

But this bastard just admitted he'd been with her—come inside her.

So who was telling the truth?

I listened as he described the night in detail, feigning outrage.

“You… you son of a bitch! You're not even a friend! Get the hell out of here!”

I turned away, pretending to be disgusted.

But as I walked off, I couldn't help it—I smiled.

A netorare husband like me? I was thrilled.

Back home, I told my wife I'd confronted the friend and forgiven him.

Then I told her, “Now you tell me everything—don't leave a single thing out.”

I promised I'd understand, no matter what.

Only then did she break down in tears and confess.

Yes. They'd been intimate.

At first, she didn't realize it was him.

Only when he entered her did she realize—it wasn't me. It was my friend.

But by then, it was too late.

She just lay there, praying the moment would pass quickly.

I asked, “So… you felt nothing?”

At first, she said, when she realized it wasn't her husband, she was shocked—too stunned to feel anything.

But when he came inside her—when she felt him finish deep inside her—she admitted it.

It sent a thrill through her body.

And so, my wife, too, had been taken by that friend—just like the others.

Later, I heard he bragged openly about it.

Six married friends' wives, he'd claimed.

Among the friends, a silent rule emerged: Don't let that bastard into your house.

For non-netorare husbands, it would've been a nightmare.

One friend even divorced—but no one ever found out why.

As for me?

I was a netorare husband.

And I couldn't have been happier.

I almost wanted to invite that friend again.

Too bad it never happened.