Chapter 1 — The Married Woman's Story

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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"Enjoy your meal!"

After a hard day's work, there's nothing better than hot fish cake broth and a cold beer.

No matter how tough life gets, it's moments like this that keep you going.

I'd just finished washing off the sweat and dust when I stepped out, thirst finally quenched.

Oh, right—

That "place" was a tiny hole-in-the-wall shop attached to a building next to our dormitory near the tool market construction site in Jeompo.

I got knocked flat on my back by unemployment long before the economic crisis hit—hit harder and earlier than most. Starving and exhausted, I ended up here, doing manual labor for the first time in my life. A month had passed since I arrived in Jeompo, and now I was learning what it meant to feel the orgasm of labor—raw, brutal, and real.

How do you survive such exhausting days? How do you not just run away?

That's when I discovered my stress relief: a cup of fish cake broth and a beer from that little shop.

The dorm itself was an old, run-down inn, built who knows when. One room crammed with three or four men tangled together in sleep—the perfect worker's shelter.

Inside my room, three coworkers from the southern coast, all just past thirty, were sprawled out more messily than usual, probably worn out from yesterday's grind.

I'd barely lain down in the corner when sleep refused to come. Since tomorrow was a day off, I figured—why not one more drink? So I slipped out again.

When I returned to the shop, I found the woman I called Sarah—same age as me—and her husband, whom I called Daniel, in the middle of an argument.

As soon as I walked in, Daniel gave me an awkward greeting, then quickly excused himself, saying he had to leave for a job out of town.

"Did you fight again? You guys argue a lot lately."

"I used to wonder why people get divorced… but maybe it happens exactly like this."

She looked utterly deflated.

She'd graduated from a respectable women's university in Seoul, married the prized son of a well-off family in Jeompo. But families can fall apart in an instant. Three years after marriage, here she was—sighing every time she saw me.

It was hard to believe she was already over thirty. Cute, delicate features. Tall and shapely from her days in a physical education program. Wasting her beauty selling fish cake in a dingy shop—it felt like a crime.

Among the laborers at the dorm, she was legendary—not just for her looks, but for being the kind of woman who could make a man lock himself in the bathroom and jerk off thinking about her. In Jeompo, she stood out.

I came around often because I liked her—but somehow, I'd managed never to show my darker intentions. Maybe that's why I got along so well with her husband. We were like brothers.

"Eric, have a drink with me. I can't go home tonight…"

She locked up the shop and we headed to a street-food bar pub nearby. She said she wanted to call her husband to let him know, so she dialed.

She told him to come pick her up in an hour, that we'd just be "setting the mood" a bit. But he hung up on her mid-sentence—no answer, no location. That guy's gut was as black as squid ink.

I felt uneasy. Was this a chance? Meeting her secretly while her husband was away?

But honestly—whether I "took" her or not didn't really matter anymore.

I regretted calling him. Filled with mixed feelings, I poured myself another beer.

"Eric, are you not getting married?"

"Seeing you and Daniel… kinda killed any desire I had."

"Oh, what a waste. One bachelor lost. Still, marriage should be with someone you love. Marry for money and you'll end up like me."

She seemed drunk, but wasn't slurring. And going home? Clearly not on her mind.

"Let's go to a karaoke place, Eric!"

Before I could protest, she grabbed my hand and pulled me along. We ended up in a grim underground karaoke room with over thirty rooms—so dead nobody ever came through. I'd been there a few times with the other laborers.

It was late September, but tropical nights still clung on. Inside that cramped room, drinking beer and swaying to the music, Sarah danced with feverish energy.

Sweat poured down her body.

`Damn, she really knows how to party.`

I clapped, caught up in the moment, riding the high of a few songs—

Then I noticed. Her pleated skirt and white tank top were soaked with sweat, clinging tightly to her skin.

Her curves were suddenly impossible to ignore.

I pressed a random button, planning to take a break. It turned out to be a blues track.

Feeling a little bold, I joked, "Let's dance the blues, huh?"

And as if she'd been waiting, she rose from the sofa.

Outside, the translucent glass blocked any view. No one passed by. The counter auntie was definitely passed out by now. It was 3 a.m.

I wrapped one arm around her waist, kept some distance at first, spun slowly—then gradually pulled her closer into my chest.

The soft pressure of her breasts pressed against me sent a jolt straight through.

Before I could think, before I could hesitate, my hand tightened on her waist.

She paused—unsure, maybe embarrassed—but only for a second. Then I began grinding my lower body against her mound, and she didn't stop me.

A few random songs played, all conveniently blues. Our physical contact grew bolder, deeper. But she never said no.

I was still worried about Daniel—but when I brushed my warm breath against her ear, I felt her chest tremble.

If I'd grabbed her breast then, it would've escalated instantly. I hesitated.

`Is this okay? Am I going to pay for this later?`

Doubt flickered in my mind—rose, vanished, rose again.

Then, as her slim but healthy waist twitched slightly, I plunged my tongue into her mouth.

One hand already gripped her breast. The other kneaded her ass.

She let out a muffled moan. Her hands pushed weakly at my chest—half-hearted resistance.

I turned her around, massaged both breasts with my palms, teased the nape of her neck.

Then I slid my hand down, grabbed her mound firmly.

She gasped, then started grinding her hips against mine, chasing friction.

With one hand, I reached under her tank top, squeezing her breast beneath her bra. With the other, I lifted her pleated skirt.

When I slipped my hand into her panties, she resisted—just for a second.

That resistance shattered the moment my middle finger began sliding into her secret slit.

"Haaang!"

Without a word, I backed her against the wall, hiking her skirt up.

She leaned against the translucent glass with both hands, lifting one leg slightly—exposing herself, letting her half-lowered panties fall short of covering her ass.

I wore shorts, so I yanked them and my boxers down together, then thrust my cock hard into her wet, slick opening.

"Hahk!"

Rough doggy style.

Her pleated skirt bunched at her waist. No time to pull her tank top up—I just tugged it down to her waist.

Had she given birth? My cock slid in with little resistance.

The sound of flesh slapping made me nervous, so I stuffed my undershirt between her ass and my pelvis and began slamming into her mercilessly.

Thrust.

Twist.

Grind.

She stifled her moans by biting her hand, struggling to endure my relentless pace.

Then, suddenly—

"Ahhak!"

A loud cry—loud enough to reach the counter—and she shuddered, trying to push me away.

I was close too. I laid her down on the sofa, hooked her legs over my shoulders, and started pounding again.

I could feel her inner walls starting to clamp down on my cock—a sign I was nearing climax.

She gestured toward her chest with her eyes.

"I don't have tissue…"

Her face was flustered, desperate—but still burning with arousal.

She moved fast, pulling my cock out and rushing toward it.

Then—

At the exact moment I erupted, her wide-open mouth swallowed my entire length.

"Huh!"

Unable to hold back, I shot load after load into her mouth—so much I couldn't imagine.

And she—still trembling with excitement—swallowed every drop without hesitation.

For a while, she kept sucking my softening cock, then slowly lifted her face.

A little calmer now.

She fixed her clothes and walked out.

I could see her house in the distance, but regret wouldn't let me go. I caught up behind her, wrapped my arms around her waist, and caressed her breasts.

She looked scared, but I led her to the second floor of the construction site.

Footsteps echoed occasionally—someone coming home late—but she took my cock fully, muffling her moans.

When the footsteps faded, she let out deep, shuddering cries again.

Once on the second floor.

Again on the stairs as we came down.

Again and again, until my cock went numb.

Until she collapsed into pleasure over and over.

Finally, she went home.

The next day, her mother-in-law was running the shop.

I was worried, but had no way to ask. All I could do was wait, anxiously, for Sarah to appear.

A week passed before she finally showed up.

She looked calm—as if nothing had happened. But colder toward me.

Our private moments were interrupted for a long time by nosy dorm mates.

It wasn't until another week later that we were alone again.

I'd sprained my ankle and returned early. Somehow, she knew. She slipped into my room, avoiding the landlady's eyes.

Without a word, she fell into my arms and cried. Then left.

My heart ached. I went down to the shop, but it was closed.

Later, I heard from a coworker—she'd filed for divorce.

I didn't see her again for the rest of that year.

I met her again the following year.

Somehow, she'd tracked me down—found out I'd been rehired at my old job.

We spent a week together in a hotel room in Sinchon—living as if we belonged to each other, confirming, over and over, what we meant.

We talked.

She wasn't divorced yet—just separated. Said divorce would be hard, for the kids' sake.

And she asked one thing.

To be there for each other.

Whenever either of us needed it.

After that, we met a few times—back and forth between Incheon and Sinchon, sharing short nights.

But eventually, even that couldn't last. Something like love never quite formed—just need, just heat.

We never said "let's break up." We just drifted apart.

No words. No regrets.

This is the story of the married woman I once knew.