Chapter 1 — The Reversal

He insists on his signature posture again today. There’s a bed, but he stubbornly demands I grip the table, bending over from behind.

In the mirror, the two of us are framed—flesh colliding, trembling—yet I grimace, chewing mechanically, unable to fully suppress my disgust.

His hand always holds a small camera. As usual, I let my long hair drape heavily, turning my face away so no one can recognize me.

He’s desperate to capture the moment—when his cock, soaked like wet laundry, plunges into my pussy.

I no longer believe his excuse that he takes photos because he never wants to forget how I look during these moments. But I don’t mind becoming the woman in his pictures. Maybe it’s the endless string of cheap motels that’s made me so numb.

Let someone on the internet see it. They’ll just think I’m another cheap whore meeting random men in love hotels, grinding away.

“Lift your legs a little higher, please. That’s it. It’s so hard to get a good shot like this. I should ask someone else to help me out, really.”

“Huffing, who? Which bastard do you want to show this to again? Huh huh… enough, man. Huh huh.”

At a time when even breathing is difficult, taking photos somehow dulls the sensation.

But now, I respond to his demands with practiced ease.

In the past, the moment we entered a motel room, my lower body would already be wet, my breath quickening.

Now, even as we do everything, the threshold of pleasure never quite reaches that peak.

I once sought fresh excitement in our sex that I never felt with my husband. Now, we both admit that thrill has faded.

And so, we’ve occasionally gone too far to stimulate each other.

That’s how these photos came to be. At first, I refused, we fought, I got upset and sometimes just went home.

But once, he secretly took a photo with his phone and showed it to me. I didn’t hate it.

The woman in the photo seemed unfamiliar, almost not me.

And strangely, she looked younger than I am. That’s when I said, if you’re going to take pictures, let’s do it properly.

Behind my husband’s back, I’d sneak peeks at the vulgar sites, gazing at other women’s pussy shots and their penetrated bodies.

Inwardly, I’d think, I can hold my own, at least as well as them.

People would ask—am I even sane? A married woman cheating so openly?

I once heard someone say that extramarital affairs are just traps you set for yourself.

I don’t fully agree, but I can’t deny it either.

No matter how much I demanded sex, my husband showed no real interest. Day by day, I grew exhausted.

His obsession with the internet, his indifference during our actual sex—those changes led us here.

Now, I’m used to cleaning up the crumpled tissues left behind in my husband’s study every morning.

After dinner, he automatically retreats there, losing himself in his world, forgetting sleep as he endlessly hunts for new pussies online.

And I just accept it. That’s our life.

Still, our marriage has no real problems. We just have different tastes and feelings about sex.

Even while cheating, I’ve suggested to my husband, “Why don’t we try taking photos together sometime?”

He answers in a tone neither serious nor enthusiastic.

“That’s what exhibitionists do. I just watch and get off. Why would I go through the trouble of buying and displaying my own wife’s body?”

The man I’m with is different. Fearing my interest might fade, he constantly pushes for new experiences.

I tell myself I willingly indulge in these acts—not just for pleasure, but to escape the guilt of cheating.

This is my justification for seeing him. For our sex, I always wear the clothes he wants—packing them in my bag before heading to the motel.

Strange panties I’d never wear in public, so flimsy they leave my lower body exposed. Bras that reveal every curve of my breasts. Lewd slips. Garters.

He values fetishism. My husband doesn’t understand wearing anything special for sex.

He believes sex is best in the nude, so the only preparation I do for him is washing up afterward.

And my long hair—swaying and wrapping around us during sex—bothers him. He always ties it back tightly with a headband.

But not him. He says he loves how my long hair wraps around his cock.

When he takes me from behind, gripping my hair like reins, his lust flares violently. There are so many differences between him and my husband.

Every time I return home, I swear I’ll end it with him, prepare for goodbye. But when night comes, and I face my husband’s indifferent touch, the routine thrusting and pumping, the sex that ends in ejaculation—

I start dreaming of meeting him again.

Am I being tamed by him? In this cycle, the guilt I once felt toward my husband slowly fades, and I accept it as natural.

Sometimes he asks, with jealousy, if I’m seeing someone else. I’ve come to love his childish jealousy.

Even though I’m not, I lie and say there’s another man—just to see him jealous once more.

On those days, he fucks me even more brutally, punishing me. I’ve realized this lie only deepens the obscene thrill between us.

I once asked my husband the same question. He dismissed me, saying housewives like me always come back home anyway—some instinctive return.

He always treats me as an ordinary woman. Without realizing it, I’ve been running on a hamster wheel of routine infidelity.

“Honey, I have a work dinner tonight. I’ll be late. Eat first.”

My husband will come home late. First, a barbecue joint. Then karaoke or a cozy bar. Third, a stand-up bar for a nightcap. He won’t return until past two.

Today is quiet. It’s already long past the time I expected his call.

“This is David Park.”

He always introduces himself as David Park. Like clockwork, the call comes Friday morning.

“How’s your schedule today? I’m in the 000-dong area. What should we do?”

I feel a mischievous urge. I want to break our unspoken rule. I want to have sex with him at home.

“There’s no one at home. My husband’s out for dinner tonight. How about it? At my place?”

I’m not just cheating outside—I’m inviting him into our house.

“At home? Isn’t that risky?”

I said it’s fine. He said he’s busy now, but will come by around four. I hung up, then immediately regretted starting this.

But then I caught myself—justifying it again, pushing myself back into that familiar spiral.

In my heart, leaving traces of another man’s passionate sex on the same bed I share with my husband feels like a sweet revenge.

As if punishing my husband for treating me so dryly, so tastelessly.

I even feel a strange thrill, as if I’m becoming a sophisticated, depraved villainess.

Time drags, yet moves too fast. A little past four, he calls again. I tell him to come, urging him to relax.

For a man younger than me, visiting a married woman’s home must be quite the adventure.

I greet him with a casual hello as I open the door.

“There’s no need to be so nervous. Come in.”

He hesitates, peering around as if checking if someone’s inside. His nervous glances are almost comical.

“It’s fine. Come on.”

I grab his arm and pull him in. I can’t believe this timid man has been fucking me all this time.

To ease the awkwardness, I offer him juice, saying I’ll saddle up soon.

“You’re more scared than you look.”

I sit beside him, looking up at him. He’s still stiff on the couch, back straight, tense.

“This is my first time in a situation like this.”

He’s so nervous he hasn’t even taken off his coat.

“Give me your coat. I’ll hang it up.”

He keeps scanning the room, then finally removes his coat and suit jacket. His fashion sense is always flashy—I have to give him that.

He always wears well-matched ties. Sometimes his style feels almost feminine. I never miss a chance to comment on his outfit.

I’m in a simple indoor dress, no special preparations. But I’m wearing the slutty panties he likes.

They’re so thin the wind feels like it’s blowing right through my pussy, making my lower body chilly.

I lift my dress in front of him.

“I don’t get why you like this. I can’t wear it normally, and it’s weird you only insist on it during sex.”

Yet I feel no shame showing him the pubic hair peeking from under the raised dress.

Sure enough, he grins, his expression saying, I knew it.

“They’re a huge help to me. More than just excitement during sex.
Thinking about you choosing these clothes for me—sometimes it excites me too much.”

There’s truth in that.

When I pack these outfits for him, deep down, I feel a quiet satisfaction—a different kind of pleasure in preparing for our sex.

He grabs my hand as I try to lower my skirt. Then, as if stroking fur, he touches the wild pubic hair brutally exposed through the flimsy fabric.

“I always think of my elementary school classroom when I see your hair. All the kids raising their hands, shouting, ‘Me! Me!’ That’s what it looks like. As if they’re all screaming, ‘Sex! Sex!’”

I burst out laughing. I never noticed while wearing panties, but after a shower, when nothing blocks it, and I put these on—

The pubic hair stands up like permed curls, like blades of grass rising. That’s how he sees it.

“Ugh, stop joking!”

I slap his hand and lower my skirt. I want to draw this out, build the pleasure slowly, rather than rush into sex.

After all, my husband will be late. It’s not even dinner time. I feel no pressure.

No need to waste time putting on makeup like when we meet outside.

No frantic rush to wash off the mess before he comes home.

Now I think I understand how other women feel, inviting lovers into their homes.

He seems to relax a little, slowly untying his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. I sip my juice, savoring the sight.

Unlike my husband, who even in winter wears undershirts, he always wears his shirt directly on bare skin. I’ve always envied his wildness.

And his chest hair—thick like weeds, unlike my husband’s bare chest.

I remember joking during sex, grabbing his chest hair, calling him a gorilla.

My husband’s cock isn’t small. Some women cheat because their husbands are premature or have tiny dicks—but not me.

When erect, my husband’s cock is impressively large.

But I have to admit—my lover’s cock surpasses it.

My husband’s cock is smooth, almost veinless. But my lover’s is covered in thick, coarse veins.

And the shape is different—his cock curves upward from the middle, like a banana.

Size-wise, they’re similar. But my lover’s gives me two kinds of pleasure at once.

One is visual—the grotesque bulge of veins makes me excited just looking at it.

The other is the unique sensation inside my pussy, shaped by his cock’s curve.

Even if the visual thrill is brief, the rough texture of his blood vessels, crunching in my mouth like sea cucumber, excites me.

And the anticipation of soon plunging this cock into my pussy heightens it further.

His cock’s shape delivers a more intense pleasure.

When he thrusts into me, lifting his upper body, the curved cock presses against my clit so hard it feels like it’ll pop out.

And when he fucks me from behind, even as he pushes straight in, the upward curve grinds against the upper wall of my pussy.

I can’t suppress the screams of pleasure that burst from my mouth.

He said he’d been taking salsa dance lessons recently. I don’t know if it’s because of that,

but his hip movements are so skillful, when that grotesque cock churns inside me, I scream like I’m being tortured—so loud I’m embarrassed by myself.

“Let’s go into the bedroom.”

He says it like someone might be watching, folding his clothes neatly before heading in. I can no longer hide my excitement.

In this state, wearing these thin panties, even without lifting my skirt, the wet spot on my pussy is already visible.

I’d be too ashamed to send these to dry cleaning. The evidence is obvious.

“Come on in.”

I’d already closed the curtains, anticipating his arrival.

No need for a nightlight. The bright daylight filtering through the pale yellow curtains already sets a strange mood.

As he lies on the bed, I lift my dress over my head.

Underneath, only a bra that reveals the shape of my breasts, and those lewd panties.

He’s already stroking his erect cock, gesturing for me to come closer.

The thin string of the panties, split along the outer lips, already feels sticky and damp.

I climb onto the bed.

He’s already fully erect, his curved cock pointing skyward—without even sucking it.

The thrill of sex in this forbidden place must be overwhelming.

“Baby, you like this?”

I press my body against his lower half, coiling around him like a snake, starting from his legs.

Soon, his monstrous cock fills my vision. I raise my hips and start teasing it with my tongue.

Flicking it like a paintbrush, I play with it—until he grabs my hair and shoves my face onto his cock.

I like his brutality. Then, as if fucking, he closes his eyes, gripping my head, violently thrusting up and down.

At this point, he nearly loses himself. If I don’t control my teeth, I could leave cuts on his cock, ruining the sex.

From past experience, I know I must let his cock slide deep into my throat, even to the point of gagging—never let my teeth touch.

He’s especially excited today. I can feel his sticky fluid while sucking him.

“Baby, today… uh uh… seems… uh uh… too much… uh uh.”

I can’t even speak. He’s smashing my head into his cock like he wants to break it.

If I don’t stop now, he’ll cum immediately. I forcefully pull my head back and climb on top of him, initiating a deep kiss.

Instead of kissing, he pushes his tongue out—wanting to exchange saliva with me.

As usual, he strokes my hair, playing with his tongue, waiting for my spit to flow into his mouth.

My breasts are now his. He cups my slightly small breasts in one hand and says,

“They say women with big breasts aren’t strong in bed, but you prove them wrong.”

My breasts aren’t large. Since school, I’ve worn thick-padded bras. My husband always says, if only they were a bit bigger.
It’s a small regret about my body. But he praises my pussy, which has its own charm.

He says when I’m excited, my pussy tightens like it could bite off his cock. I discovered this technique unconsciously—it comes from my anus.

I’ve always held my bowel movements better than anyone.

Not that I’m constipated, but while others couldn’t hold it and shit their pants, my anus was like a fortress.

I never dreamed this strength and skill in my sphincter would carry over into sex.

I told him it was his turn to eat me out.

He never lies me flat to do it. Always makes me bend over, alternating between my pussy and anus.

Once, while he was sucking my pussy from below, the intense pleasure made me stand on my knees—then I lost balance and fell backward, twisting my waist.

I suffered for days because of that sprain.

A signature of his is not using fingers while eating me out.

Instead, he has a special technique—making me feel like someone else is fingering both my pussy and anus at once.

My husband still hasn’t touched my anus. But just three weeks after meeting him, I gave my anus to his cock.

Unlike my husband, who ignores me during my period, he doesn’t care about the dripping blood.

He fucks my pussy and anus recklessly, cumming freely without fear of pregnancy.

Today, he already pulled the soaked panties aside, and is devouring my pussy with loud, slapping sounds.

At moments like this, my mind is flooded with obscene fantasies.

During sex with my husband, I only think about what comes next. But with him, I lose all sense of time, trembling, unable to control my body, obsessed with the fantasy.

I decide I can’t endure his tongue any longer and say I’ll lie down.

As I lie flat, his curved cock fails to enter my pussy directly, slipping and hitting empty air several times.

I guide it with my fingers to my entrance. Then, with a grunt of effort, he thrusts violently, splitting through my clenched, wet hole.

“Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.”

I’m filled with rhythm.

His slick thrusts, combined with the curved tip grinding against my inner folds like a plane smoothing wood,

send waves of dizzying pleasure crashing through my entire body.

That’s when it happened.

The door opened. Someone walked in.

Outside, it was growing dark. The room had no lights on. I couldn’t clearly see the figure entering—naked, striding in boldly.

I couldn’t even scream. I remembered a friend once telling how, spotting a burglar, she couldn’t even move her feet, let alone shout.

Then, the person climbed right onto the bed where we were fucking.

The bed creaked under the added weight, but he ignored it, focused only on burying his cock into my pussy.

For a moment, the man fucking me seemed to pause his thrusting.

This is my chance—I screamed, my voice trembling.

“Thief!”

“What thief? It’s me. Shut up.”

That familiar voice—shockingly, it was my husband.

He was pressed against David Park from behind, delivering another kind of tremor into my pussy—one I’d never felt before.

I saw his face as he thrust into me, groaned, and closed his eyes.

He hadn’t cum yet, but his position behind David Park looked ominous.

I’d been caught in the act of cheating—but why was my husband here so early, naked, and what did he intend?

I couldn’t move, couldn’t react—only feel the violent rocking of the bed.

My mind was chaos. The sensation from David Park’s thrusts was now mixed with another, unfamiliar trembling.

I turned my head to see what my husband was doing.

The room was darkening—I doubted he could even see me looking.

But my husband was fucking David Park in the ass.

David Park, thrust against by my husband, slammed back into my pussy.

My husband, breathing heavily, unlike his usual self, shouted,

“My wife’s pussy—how is it? It’s not that I don’t like it. I just prefer her asshole.
David Park, your tight asshole tastes better. Ah! The way it squeezes—!”

They knew each other. They called each other by name. It seemed they’d been having anal sex all along, without my knowledge.

Now I understood why my husband was indifferent to sex with me.

His frequent dinners, his reluctance to have children—all that time was spent on same-sex affairs.

Tears suddenly filled my eyes.

Not from shame of being caught cheating—but from sorrow at realizing I’d been clinging to a hollow shell of a marriage.

Now I understood David Park’s androgynous fashion,
and why my husband avoided sex, obsessively masturbating online.

The three of us continued, each lost in our own sexual fantasy.

My husband buried his cock into David Park’s exposed, muscular ass, trembling from the gripping pleasure.

David Park, provocatively taking it from my husband, redirected the force of that attack into violent thrusts into my pussy.

I, overwhelmed by their movements and David Park’s even harder erection, lost all awareness as my pussy was thoroughly crushed.

Perhaps the pressure from my husband’s cock through David Park’s ass made his erection soar to the sky.

David Park’s excitement must have been at its peak.

The two men came almost simultaneously.

As my husband shot his load into David Park’s ass, David Park, barely conscious,

exploded inside my pussy, spraying cum like blood. My inner walls felt every pulse with perfect clarity.

After sex, the three of us were silent.

“How long has this been going on?”

“Since before I married you. David Park was my private student back in school.
I told him to approach you on purpose, so you wouldn’t feel lonely while I was gone.”

David Park was now in my husband’s arms. I was truly alone.

My husband looked at me with the meaningful smile of a victor.

“This way of living isn’t so bad, is it?”

I nodded.

That evening, I had to cook dinner for two men instead of one.