Chapter 1 — The Wife of a Netizen Husband - 1 (1)

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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She'd read so many other stories and decided it was time to share her own. The narrative might be a bit scattered, but she'd skip the detailed family background—just picture an ordinary married woman nearing forty.

After marriage and kids, intimacy with her husband had faded almost completely. These days, they called it "sexless." But ironically, lately, her libido had been surging—so much that it had become a torment.

Before marriage, she'd dated a few people. Honestly, she'd even had a couple of one-night stands. She hadn't been inexperienced by any means.

When she'd first met her husband Daniel, she'd had this strange, unshakable certainty: She was going to marry this man. During their relationship, they did become intimate, but he was awkward—clumsy, really. So she'd played along, pretending to be innocent, pretending to be shy. That act somehow became a permanent role. Even after marriage, he still believed she was naive and inexperienced.

One night, after putting the kids to bed, they were watching TV together. The show happened to be about affairs and divorce. Without thinking, she asked him:

"If it were you… what would you do in that situation?"

"Obviously, I'd divorce her."

She'd expected that answer.

"But she only gave her heart. That's all."

He said it so matter-of-factly. That line stuck with her.

"So… if it's just the heart, then what if it's only physical? That's okay?"

He shrugged. "Sure. Before we got married, we both dated other people. We had our own lives. So if it's just about physical need—no feelings involved—then it's not a problem."

As long as it wasn't a secret, he said, it wouldn't matter. It sounded absurd, but in that moment, it strangely made sense. So she teased, almost jokingly:

"So if I slept with another man, that'd be fine too?"

"You? Don't be ridiculous."

He laughed it off. The tone—was it trust, or condescension? She couldn't tell, but it stung a little. So she tossed out a half-truth, just to see:

"There's this guy I work with, Michael. He seems interested in me. If I'd known you thought like that, maybe I would've taken him up on it. Maybe I should start being bolder from tomorrow…"

He started pressing her. After that night, their life went on as usual, but he became oddly persistent—asking who she'd been with, what expressions she'd made, why she'd said such things.

At first, she thought it was just jealousy. But those questions… they stirred something in her.

She began spinning stories, exaggerating little things. The way his eyes darkened, the way his breathing changed—it pulled her in. That night, for the first time in over a year, he initiated sex. That was the beginning.

After that, she found herself lost in thought more often. The gaze of someone other than her husband. The touch of a stranger. The simple urge to feel free. She couldn't act on any of it—her family came first. But her mind grew increasingly tangled. A quiet voice began to grow: She wanted to live more honestly now.

He says it's fine anyway—so what's the harm?

A month or two passed. She met up with some old friends. After a few drinks, the mood loosened, laughter spilled out. Then one of them said:

"Wanna go to a nightclub? It's been ages…"

She hesitated for a second, then texted her husband. To her surprise, he replied casually:

"Yeah, go ahead."

That single sentence made her feel strangely free. Stepping into the city's neon glow with her friends, she became herself again—no longer just someone's wife. The loud music, the gaze of strangers, the long-forgotten flutter in her chest… It had been so long.

The friends she came with scattered almost as soon as they entered—pulled away by waiters the moment they sat down. They'd bump into each other now and then, but mostly, they were lost in the crowd. She kept drinking—just one more shot, then another—until she was pleasantly buzzed.

About two hours after they arrived, she couldn't find her friends anymore. Maybe they'd left with someone, or maybe they'd gone home early. She wasn't sure.

Feeling the alcohol rise, she stepped into the restroom. On her way back, a waiter grabbed her wrist. She said she was leaving, but he insisted—just one more guest, just one quick meeting. He all but dragged her into a private room.

Two young men, early twenties, sat inside. She was seated beside one of them. He handed her a drink. She didn't know if it was the alcohol, but she found him oddly charming.

Then her phone rang. It was her husband. The room had a restroom, so she stepped in and answered.

"Where are you?"

"Still out with the girls."

She'd told him she was going out, but saying "nightclub" felt awkward.

"Still at the club? Did you book anyone?"

She told him the truth—drunk, still out, currently on a booking with a guy who looked about twenty-something. He just laughed and said, "Have fun. Come back safe," and hung up.

She walked out of the restroom and sat back beside the guy. He asked who called. She said, "My husband," honestly.

He looked shocked. "You're married? You don't look it."

She told him her age. He said she looked his peer, then showered her with compliments.

Well, who doesn't like being called beautiful? She felt good.

Her friend who came with her wasn't faring well—women kept entering the room, then leaving quickly. No luck.

They three drank and talked. At some point, the young guy beside her slipped his arm around her shoulder. She didn't pull away. It felt nice—especially with someone so young.

They kept drinking. The music swelled, loud and pulsing. She glanced toward the door and saw her friend walking out. Once she was gone, the room felt… different. Awkward? No—charged.

The boy's arm had already slid down to her waist. She knew exactly what he wanted. But she didn't stop him.

They were talking, then silence fell. They just stared into each other's eyes.

Then, slowly, his face moved closer. His lips met hers.

His tongue pushed between her lips. She parted them slightly, letting him in.

Their tongues tangled. She hadn't kissed like this in years. And never—never—with a stranger. She was trembling with excitement.

His hand was already on her breast, groping gently. She didn't stop him. What could she do? Just stay still. Let it happen.

The hand on her breast slid down to her thigh. They were still kissing—deep, hungry. She could feel herself getting wetter, heat pooling low in her belly.