Chapter 2 — The Wife of a Netizen Husband - 1 (2)

His hand was creeping higher up my thigh, slowly slipping beneath my skirt. I didn't want him to know how turned on I was—how a woman older than him could feel this kind of excitement.

I broke the kiss and calmed him down. But he was already aroused—I could feel it. He pulled me close again, trying to kiss me while sliding his hand under my skirt once more. Again, I stopped him. This time, I gave him a slightly stern look.

Maybe I seemed too easy. This time, he reached under my shirt and started touching my breasts. Fine, I thought. I'll let that slide.

Then he tried lifting my clothes to suck them. Even drunk, I knew that was too far.

There was still a line inside me—a boundary I hadn't realized had remained after years of being a wife, a mother. That night, I found it again.

I pushed him back, serious now. If I stayed any longer, I'd know I'd cross that line with him.

It took real effort to calm him down. We exchanged numbers, then I fled the room like I was running for my life. I don't even remember how I got home. The moment I stepped through the front door, the alcohol burned off as if doused with cold water.

I glanced at the clock—almost 2 a.m. Daniel was still awake, waiting for me.

I told him everything. Every single thing. No omissions. He stared at me like he'd never seen me before. You have this side? His expression said it all.

I headed to the bathroom to wash up. He followed. And just from hearing my story, he was already completely turned on.

In the bathroom, he turned me around, bent me over, and entered me immediately. It hurt, but I bore it. He came quickly—too excited to last—but it wasn't unpleasant.

After showering, I checked my phone. A messaging app message. From Michael Lee.

I showed it to Daniel. He opened the profile, looked through everything. When I said I'd delete the number, he stopped me.
"Just leave it," he said.
My perverted husband…^^

From the next day on, Michael messaged every day. After ten years as a wife and mother, talking to a stranger felt heavy, awkward. Sometimes I couldn't reply right away—too busy, too guilty.

When I came home from work, Daniel would subtly check my phone, peeking at the messages from Michael. Sometimes he'd drop hints—"Why don't you meet him?"—with a tone so light it almost sounded innocent.

It made me uneasy. Perverted. Yet, I began to look forward to those messages. For the first time in years, I felt like a woman being courted, desired—not a mother, not a wife fulfilling duties, but someone wanted.

Every night after putting the kids to bed, I'd find Daniel scrolling through my phone again. The pressure built. Talking to a younger man made me feel ashamed, exposed. Finally, I confessed how torn I felt. To my surprise, he understood.

We agreed—no more daily checks. No more suspicion. In return, I promised full transparency. Everything would be shared. But as we finished talking, he casually tossed out:
"Why don't you meet him once?"

A month passed—just messages, no contact beyond words. Then, finally, we made plans to meet on the weekend. When I told Daniel, he nodded without hesitation.
"Go ahead."

I dropped the kids at my parents' house, spent a little time with them, then headed to the meeting spot.

The café. He was already there, seated. At first, it was awkward—but the ease we'd built through weeks of messages softened the tension fast.

We talked. Too fast, lunchtime arrived. We left the café to eat together.

Walking side by side down the street, he suddenly took my hand. I wondered if we looked strange—older woman, young man—but I didn't pull away. We walked like lovers.

We had lunch, then strolled through a nearby park. This time, I was the one who slipped my arm through his.

Time flew. He suggested drinks. I agreed.

Over alcohol, I thought: Should I give in today? But I didn't want to seem cheap, too easy.

At the bar, we sat close. The mood loosened us. A light peck on his cheek—mine. Then his lips brushed mine, just once. A peck on my cheek—his turn.

We parted without more. He offered to walk me home, but I refused firmly. I didn't want him knowing where I lived. What if he saw my child's friend's parent? What if word got out?

I left him behind and headed toward the subway station.

Then—

“Beep~~~”

A car horn. I turned.

It was Daniel.

He'd been following me all day—and I hadn't noticed a thing.

Images flashed in my mind: our linked arms, holding hands, the kisses on the cheek. My face burned. I tested him, half-hoping he hadn't seen. But yes—he'd seen everything. My damn perverted husband!

Back home, we drank again. I was already tipsy, and it didn't take much to deepen the buzz. Not blackout drunk—just hazy at the edges.

Our conversation circled back to Michael. Maybe because of the alcohol, Daniel grew bolder.
“What really happened?” he asked.

I told him. Honestly.
“I even thought about sleeping with him today.”

And then—his response:
“You didn't? Why not? I wish you had.”

My voice trembled.
“If I slept with another man… you wouldn't care?”

“Of course not.”

He smiled. Slow. Dark. Knowing.

That filthy, twisted, perverted smile of his…