Chapter 1 — The Man Next Door 1

Am I one of those women? Teaching at a cram school is incredibly stressful.

I have to help students prepare for exams, and coddle the slow ones just so they can barely survive this place. That’s how it is.

Maybe that’s why—whenever stress builds up—I start craving a man’s touch.

This guy? I met him at a club, meant to be just a one-night stand, but somehow we ended up living together.

But this bastard… he’s got a twisted side. Always fixated on taking me from behind.

Once, right in the middle of it, he slammed into me from behind so hard I had bowel issues for three days straight.

Every time I sat on the toilet, “fucking asshole” slipped out on its own.

If he ever does that again, I swear I’ll leave—but no matter how much I threaten it, I can’t seem to break free. He’s insatiably horny, and honestly? He’s not bad in bed. Better than nothing, at least. So here I am, staying without pride or dignity.

Lately, though, he’s gotten even more twisted.

During sex, he’s started chasing something darker.

He keeps asking me where it feels good, demanding I say it out loud.

At first, I thought it was weird—he used to be satisfied when I just said “there”—but now his demands have escalated.

Only when I actually say “pussy” with my own mouth does he go wild, pounding into me like a madman. If I want to feel anything at all, I have no choice but to give him exactly what he wants.

He’s always after my body—day or night, any chance he gets—but what can I do? It feels good. How can I deny that?

Guess I really am one of those women. But even endurance has its limits.

His constant dirty talk has become exhausting. When he keeps pushing me to curse along with him, I want to slap him and forget about sex altogether.

Instead, I can only scream louder—fake coquettishness, exaggerated moans—to avoid confrontation.

It’s awkward living in a studio; I worry the neighbors will hear. But if I don’t make enough noise, he’ll relentlessly demand I curse for him.

When I moan loudly, he thinks I’m turned on. He sweats, grinning like an idiot—actually kind of cute, I guess.

Lately, though, the neighbor next door keeps nagging at my mind.

Just someone I’ve passed by occasionally. He lives right beside us.

Not exactly handsome, but he’s got a certain vibe—someone I’d actually want to meet.

But why… whenever I see him, I shrink inside?

I feel like he must know—somehow—about my moans. And the thought makes me burn with shame.

Every time we pass each other, I look away, avoiding eye contact, fleeing silently.

Tonight, this bastard will pounce on me again.

Why do I feel ashamed of how naturally my legs spread open?

Why am I already afraid of what he’ll make me do tonight?

Still, my body betrays me—already soaked with arousal.

"Hah… hah… baby… hah… just once… say something dirty to me… hah… just once… say it… hah… I want to hear it… hah…"

"Ahh… how… how can I… ahhn… I can’t… ahhh… aaaaang…"

"Hah… then I’ll say it. Hah…"

"Ahnn… yeah, you say it… ahhn… say it…"

"Ah… fucking hell, this feels insane… hah… damn… where is this? Hah… where the fuck is this?"

"Aaaang… my pussy… aaaaaaah… ahh…"

"Hah… good? Feels good, doesn’t it? My cock feels good, huh?"

"Yes… yes, baby… ahh… I love your cock… ahnn…"

"Ahh… baby… go faster… harder… uunngh…"

"Hah… fucking good, right? Bitch… damn, you feel good? Hah… filthy cunt… hah… so damn delicious… fucking bitch."

For a second, I couldn’t believe my ears. Is he really saying this? To me?

Does he really think of me like this? Even if I’m an easy woman, calling me a “filthy cunt,” a “fucking bitch”—is that okay?

Has this crazy bastard seen me this way the whole time?

He’s thrusting like a madman, but suddenly, all my arousal vanishes.

"Hey, you fucking asshole! Am I a bitch to you? Am I just some slut? You sick freak—you’ve got limits, you know! Do I look that pathetic to you? You piece of shit!"

I shove him off with all my strength, scrambling for my underwear, but the anger won’t fade.

I grab the bedside clock and hurl it across the room, then storm into the bathroom—but even that doesn’t calm me.

Tears well up uncontrollably because of this twisted bastard. I can’t live with him anymore. Not even one more day.

I wipe my tears and step out—but there’s no remorse in his eyes.

Just bewilderment. Like I’m the unreasonable one. That look makes me even angrier.

I want to curse at him, but he’s not even worth the words.

My gaze falls on his junk.

I want to throw everything—makeup, clothes, every last thing—just to ease this suffocating rage.

This pathetic relationship needs to end. Now.

He says sorry, but I can’t stand looking at the face of someone who sees me this way.

No attachment left. Just disgust crawling over my skin like bugs.

The next morning, I quietly ask him to leave my place.

He calls me over and over, but I don’t answer. What a fucking nuisance.

It takes a few days, but eventually he clears out. Still, I take whatever he left behind and toss it all.

I spray perfume and air freshener everywhere—like I’m trying to erase even the faintest trace of his scent.

Relieved, yes. But this emptiness in my chest… is it regret? Or just loneliness?

Even at work, I’m irritable. I wish someone could understand how I feel.

As the gloomy days drag on, I grow to hate my apartment. I should move.

That bastard might come back.

When I get home, I lie down in the dark, staring blankly at the ceiling.

So lonely. So damn lonely.

Then, in the silence, I hear a sound. Faint—but unmistakable.

A moan.

At first, I ignore it. But it grows clearer.

A woman’s moan. Ah. History unfolding next door.

Once noticed, the sound becomes impossible to ignore.

Suddenly, the face of the man next door flashes in my mind. And as I grow accustomed to the sounds, my body tenses—twisting, aching, driving me insane.

I realize my panties are wet. I barely brush a finger against them—already soaked.

It’s been ages since I’ve had sex, but I didn’t expect to be this sensitive.

I slide a finger between my folds.

"Ahhn..."

The moan slips out before I realize it.

I can’t hold back anymore.

I strip off my panties, and just touching my clit with my middle finger sends tremors through my body.

How long has it been since I’ve felt this? With a man around, I never even thought about masturbating. But my body remembers—craves it.

As I circle my clit with my finger, sensation floods back, sharper and deeper. Each stroke sparks new waves of pleasure.

I push the finger inside, syncing my rhythm with the moans from next door.

With every movement, I hear the slick, squelching sound of my wetness filling my ears.

My pussy clamps down hard on my finger—electric, awakening sensations I’d buried long ago.

As the moans next door grow more intense, I speed up, matching their pace.

I want to add another finger, but this is enough. More than enough.

So much arousal has pooled inside me that I can feel it dripping down, even reaching my ass.

Something deep inside me is rising, ready to burst.

Yes. This feeling!

My hips lift off the bed, trembling spreading through my entire body.

"Just… a little more… a little more… ahnn… ahnn…"

I imagine the man next door as I push my finger deeper, circling slowly, then grip my breast at the peak—squeezing hard.

My nipples ache under my fingers. God, it’s been so long since I’ve felt this.

I want to fall asleep like this. Stay wrapped in this feeling.

Tonight, I’ll sleep completely naked. Nothing on.

I want to wipe away the dripping wetness with a towel, but I don’t have the energy.

Don’t want to move. Just stay here.

My eyelids grow heavy. Maybe it’s the lightness, the comfort?

Guess I really am one of those women.

One act of masturbation—and I feel this peaceful, this free.