Chapter 1 — The Woman Who Loves Sex - Part 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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Introduction — It took me nearly a year to sleep with her. And no, I'm not inexperienced with women. But her—Jenny Han—was different. I pursued her with a patience and intensity I'd never shown another.

She was 34. Short, overweight, and by no standard of conventional beauty. Yet I was drawn to her like a moth to flame—because she was a virgin. A true one. Not just untouched by a man, but never even touched herself. The kind of rarity you'd expect in a museum, not in a modern office. That fact alone consumed me.

Most men would overlook a woman like her. And yes, I admit—I do too, even now. Looks matter. But I'm not some exceptional specimen either. No broad shoulders, no towering frame. Just an average, unremarkable man. So why do women cling to me? I don't understand it. People call me a Casanova, a womanizer. Sometimes I wonder if it's because I'm just that good in bed—but how would anyone know? Sex is private. You can't see skill from the outside.

Unless, perhaps, it's how I make them feel. That might be it. But let's move on.

I'd known Jenny Han for years, but never as a woman. Just a coworker. Nothing about her stood out—her looks, her personality, her presence. Except one thing: at 35, she was still a virgin. And yes, you might find that hard to believe, but once you see her, you'll understand.

Then one night, during a late shift at the office, desire hit me like a fever. I was scrolling through porn, aroused and restless, when I glanced at her sitting in front of me. Suddenly, I imagined her beneath me—innocent, trembling, mine. The urge became unbearable.

But I didn't rush. I'm too controlled for that. Even if I saw her as a lover, I never considered marriage. She was only ever meant to be a sexual partner—someone to ease the monotony of office life. Nothing more.

One sweltering summer evening, I made my move. We'd exchanged playful texts for months, so meeting for a drink was easy. We walked to a vending machine nearby, bought coffee, and sat on a bench. I gently took her hand.

She trembled instantly.

"Why are you shaking? It's boiling out here."

"No, I—I was just surprised you grabbed my hand."

"Don't be startled. What's wrong with holding hands?"

I learned then that she'd never even held hands with her own siblings. So mine was the first man's hand she'd ever felt. (Believe it or not.)

We spoke briefly—just five minutes. Her voice gradually softened, loosened. It was past ten. The streets were quiet except for the occasional car. I placed my hand on her shoulder. She flinched, pulling away.

I pretended not to notice, letting my hand slide slowly from her shoulder down toward her breast. She caught my wrist.

"David Kang, what are you doing?"

"What? Just resting my hand."

Before the words finished, I found her lips and kissed her.

Her breath came in sharp, ragged gasps. She had no idea how to kiss. Her mouth opened wide, passive—no movement, no response. She didn't know what to do with my tongue. I explored her mouth freely, tasting her inexperience.

After a moment, she timidly touched her tongue to mine. When they met, she startled at the sensation. I opened my eyes slightly—hers were tightly shut, her chest heaving, breath wild.

A single kiss, and she was already melting. Women say my kiss makes their knees weak—well, within a minute, she was collapsing under it. While kissing, I slipped my hand into her blouse, moving toward her breast.

Her breast was large. She tried to push my hand away, but I held her tight with one arm, leaving her helpless. My right hand slipped under her bra, finding her nipple.

"Huh!"

I couldn't help but gasp. Her nipple was large—like a woman who'd already borne a child. Hard, erect. But her breasts themselves were sagging, drooping. Still, I didn't care. Most men crave firm breasts, but those who know better understand: sagging ones are better to chew, to worship, to ruin with teeth and tongue.

Suddenly, I broke the kiss and pushed her blouse up. She panicked, trying to stop me, but it was too late. Her drooping breasts were fully exposed.

"Oh no, stop! I'm embarrassed!"

"How can I properly pleasure you if I don't see?"

"My breasts… they're sagging…"

"It's fine. Sagging breasts excite me more."

I began to caress them. Most men wouldn't feel pleasure touching such breasts. But I wasn't seeking my own pleasure—not yet. I was building hers. Because I needed her to want me. To crave the sex I could give. To become a woman who would open her legs whenever I wanted.

I gently bit her breast, releasing, biting again. Each time, she cried out in pain. Then I focused on her large nipple—biting, releasing—before biting her breast deeply, then soothing it with my tongue. Over and over. Soon, her ragged breathing turned into soft, broken moans.

"Ah!~"

While I worked her breasts, I gently pulled her hand and placed it on my cock. Her fingers stiffened at first—then curiosity took over. She began to stroke me tentatively. My cock was already rock-hard. As she touched me, I let my hand drift to her stomach, rubbing slow circles.

A woman with no experience doesn't know pleasure. Doesn't know orgasm. So I had to create it in her. Only then would I truly be served.

Her stomach grew warm beneath my touch. That was the sign—down below, her pussy was already wet. I slid my left hand down, pressing lightly against her crotch through her pants. The fabric was damp. Her pussy juice had soaked her underwear.

I moved my hand back to her breast, briefly fondling her nipple, then stopped. I didn't go further. Not yet.

She seemed both relieved and disappointed—her hand lingered on my cock, reluctant to let go.

"That's enough for today. Let's stop here."

"Yeah… I'm glad."

But her expression said otherwise. There was something lingering in her eyes—curiosity, tension, a strange aftertaste. A pull.

This was her first kiss.