Chapter 1 — Two Women

She still hadn't stopped crying in front of me.

Still tears left to shed, I see?

Let's end this.

The world has changed. You're no longer in a position to make demands before…

I know. That's why I agreed to meet you.

I appreciate your understanding.

But… how exactly do I even approach him?

Why does it need words? Think of this as a simple handover of duties.
There’s not a trace of bitterness left in me toward the man you call husband. At this point, it's only right I extend this courtesy.
After all, I'm finally returning to you the one person who meant more to you than anyone else in this world.
There's nothing I wouldn't do at this moment. Don't thank me too much.

Still, she bowed her head in gratitude, and I responded with a silent nod in return.

Our relationship—once the kind where, if she'd known, she'd have stormed in like an outraged wife and shattered every mirror in the house…

I had been openly living as another woman's husband for over five years.

During that time, I'd clung desperately to the idea of having a child with him, threatened to expose our affair to the world, and relentlessly pressured him with demands for divorce—pressing him day after day.

When I said there was no bitterness left in me, it was a lie.

I want to state clearly: being with a married man wasn't just an affair. It was an act of defiance—a desperate desire to put a period on the life I'd been living until then.

This man, that man—endless, meaningless encounters, and the seductive lure of money that kept dragging me back.

At first, it was comforting. The luxury of focusing on just one man…

But I didn't realize, at the time, that this comfort would demand a complete surgical overhaul of my freedom.

Foolish woman…

As I focused solely on him, I began unconsciously cutting ties with the rest of the world, not realizing I was isolating myself.

My entire world revolved around him. I felt as though I owned him completely. Such a stupid illusion.

I won't tell my husband. I'm leaving today. I've already moved out everything. Aside from seeing you, I have nothing else to say to him.

But that, too, was a lie. I still believed I could swallow him whole with a single word, if I wanted.

All this time, I'd been hiding behind him, learning things about him far more intimate than even his wife could know.

I never surfaced, but I knew every corner of the world he lived in.

Not only that—I knew the layout of the house he shared with her, the contents of her vanity, even what kind of panties she wore, captured through the camcorders and digital cameras he adored.

I held the key to destroy her completely.

I knew the timing of their intimacy, how long he lasted, how he finished—I could picture it all with my eyes closed.

So you're leaving him forever…?

Yes. Isn't that why we're meeting like this?

Relief flickered in her eyes. Of course she'd been anxious.
There was no way she could have corrected her husband's path, not with the overwhelming pull of my charm.

That's why I downplayed this meeting as a mere handover—stripped it of emotion, made it clinical.

All the while, I had already begun thinking of leaving him, quietly going through the motions of closure.

The idea that he'd never forget me? Another bold-faced lie.

He was relieved I no longer pushed for deeper commitment, content with the routine intimacy in his daily life.
He had chosen the pattern of a simple-minded man. You could always tell by the questions he asked me afterward.

Min-woo! What happens now? Are we just going to keep living like this? Is that it?

He hated complicated talk. He didn't treat me like a prostitute, but neither did he treat me like a wife.

Do you do this at home too?

Don't be ridiculous! As if that were even possible? You were raised in an educated household, weren't you? Though I suppose you never got a proper education in these matters—know nothing at all.
There's probably no school that teaches that sort of thing. That's why I can't let go of Hye-won.

He was a man accustomed to scheming, someone I'd once praised for his quick wit.

At first, I'd laughed off his lies, amused by how easily they spilled from his mouth.

But as time passed, I realized he was just another ordinary man—no different from the rest, petty and shallow.

Don't go today!

Here we go again. When do days like this happen? I'll miss you. I'll feel lonely until we meet again. Isn't that nice?
At our age, surviving on romantic feelings like this isn't so bad. Do you think it's easy for me?
It's like a duty defense—I'm exhausted either way. My body isn't what it used to be. I've been taking medication, you know? Twice a day… including for you…

If you need medicine, why even do this? Why not just stop?

Don't you understand? Even if the effort is the same as labor, the feeling is different. You give me endless pleasure.
And I give my wife the illusion of closeness and trust—that's the fertilizer keeping our marriage alive, isn't it?

Always such polished words. I wanted to tell every single one of them to the woman sitting across from me.

But condensing five years into one moment wasn't easy.

Can you forgive me?

What choice do I have? I'm not entirely blameless either.

That was true. She had no idea he'd spent the night before his wedding with me.

She probably thought she was only now reclaiming a husband who'd strayed—nothing more.

That night, during our last time together, he had broken down and sobbed for the first time.

I had no choice but to wrap him in boundless pity and sorrow, arming myself with a tragic, noble devotion.

For a while, I couldn't hate her. Not because she was innocent—but because I resented how little she knew her own husband.

In that space between us, I tormented him, insisting that if only I were in her place, things would be different.

But every conversation with him always hit a wall.

Hye-won, get a grip! I could cut ties with this house tomorrow. You know that? Do you really want to go back to chasing other men, sucking up to them? Is that what you want?
I never promised marriage. I never decided to divorce. So what right do you have to torment me like this?
If you hate this life, just say the word. I'll end it cleanly for you.

In the end, I was nothing. Just a high-class prostitute, that's all I was.

I gave him my body. He gave me comfort. And in return, I was supposed to be happy.

I had to protect his social status—flawless, well-known. I could never tarnish it. I had to always hide from others' eyes. That was his doctrine.

The only small joy I had as a woman was the warmth I felt going out together in public—department stores, restaurants, theaters.

But he never allowed it. There was a time I called myself a vampire.

He knew the resentment hidden in that word, but he never acknowledged it. Avoiding sunlight, drawing curtains tightly—by night, or even by day, in case someone saw.

A creature devoted entirely to his desires, existing only for his pleasure.

Even if it wasn't blood, I called myself that—just to make him understand the depths of my despair.

So… how will you live from now on?

She was worrying needlessly. She didn't know a single thing about the care he'd shown me.

Would she still ask that question if she knew he'd bought her the same jewelry, the same lingerie, the same items?

He routinely bought two of everything, routinely tossed one aside.
She didn't know what to do with it. But I did.

I'll be fine. Do spiders weave webs in the mouths of the living?

Suddenly, I remembered the opening scene of a novel. In the dead heroine's bathroom, people discovered one peculiar thing—
a pile of toothbrushes, each engraved with different initials.

Everyone who entered would brush their teeth with their own, yet deliberately ignore the traces of other men.

Thinking of leaving him, I realized I, too, would have to frantically build a new nest—
and that I needed to begin repairs, tearing down the chains that had isolated me for the past five years.

Another cycle of this life… I'd have to start collecting types of toothbrushes again.

How did you come to this decision? It couldn't have been easy…

I don't love him anymore… Is that reason enough?

But that, too, was a lie. I still can't forget him. All the lies and acts he performed before me.

I never spent a full night with him. Just fragments—intermittent moments, shards of memories like short films.

Still, I gave my best. I'm proud I tried to soothe his wounds.

He refused to call it love. He refused to give it meaning. But I believed it was love.

My endless self-hypnosis—perhaps it was just the flapping of a dying bird's wings, denied the name of love. But to me, it was love.

It won't be easy.

Will it?

I believed it meant more than just physical connection.

It was I who summoned her. In a situation where she should have exposed me, screamed at me from her position as the rightful wife, she came at my call.

I was the mistress. She was the legal wife. And yet, she couldn't speak in front of me. That was the world. That was how it was sung.

You're probably short on time, but please don't forget what I've told you…

Forget? How could I forget? I had to prepare for him constantly. The memories of my role grew more vivid with time.

The second reason I couldn't break free from him was my own habit—my life had already strayed too far from the path.

I'd always believed intimacy was about excitement and burning sensation.

But meeting him, I was amazed I could fall into passion so deeply, even when I didn't want to love.

I completely discarded my old values and habits about physical connection.

Sometimes I reached fulfillment without penetration. Sometimes without even his touch.

During the long hours without him, I'd drool uncontrollably just thinking of him—unable to eat.

Every thought of him was filled with desire. My senses toward him flickered like neon signs centered on passion. That's how I loved him.

He changed me. And I danced with joy in that change.

It wasn't just one-dimensional—thrusting and pleasing.

It was a high-dimensional equation with countless variables.

It was like a fuse. Once lit, it became uncontrollable. Sometimes I'd pass out, unaware he'd already left for home.

It won't be easy. It might take a long time… It's not something you can force.

My words were true. It couldn't be forced. He always praised me for fulfilling my role.

That praise became fertilizer, making my obsessive thoughts toward him grow even wilder—until I became everything he wanted.

When the belief came that there was nothing more to give, I didn't wither—I became anxious.

My inability to remain fresh and new in his eyes, this stagnation, made me uneasy.

Maybe that's what made him finally decide to return home forever.

It's awkward here. It's messy. Let's go to my place first.

She didn't speak in the car. She must have expected a huge shock—she left her car and took a taxi here.

Perhaps her legs had gone weak, or her heart had shattered, making it impossible to drive.

Compared to her, my calm audacity felt slightly shameful today.
The impossible invitation—her visiting me—was happening now.

The place is a mess. Everything was moved out this morning. I don't even have proper drinks to offer.

It's fine.

Before inviting her in, I'd decided to move. If she'd seen a well-kept home, her disappointment and pain would've been even sharper.

If she'd seen the household items stained with her husband's touch, it wouldn't have been easy.

The house was empty, scattered with workers' footprints—an obvious, chaotic mess.

She had nowhere to lean or sit, just as awkward as I was.

Come this way.

Though the movers had left, a small bag remained in that room.

Looks like not everything's been taken out yet?

That bag isn't mine anymore. It's something you should take.

I spread out crumpled newspapers on the floor and offered her a seat. Given the mess, she had no reason to refuse.

When she opened the bag, her mouth fell open—she couldn't close it again.

No wonder. The memories accumulated over five years—new items, nothing surprising, but…

Look here.

Where? she asked.

See the marks on this wall? This is where the bed used to be. And these two thick rings—do you see them?

Yes.

Those rings mark the beginning of it all.

Our intimacy always began with those rings. After moving in, I'd specially ordered them—firmly cemented into the concrete wall.

Those rings were where the restraints binding him were tied.

The tighter I bound him, the more I made him surrender, knowing he couldn't escape. That beginning started from those rings.

I'd endlessly agonized over the temptation of tying his wrists to those rings.

That restraint could never be undone by him alone.

For so long, I'd wondered—could I bind him here forever, stopping him from ever going home? It was my desperate wish.

What do you do after tying him up like this…?

She tried to imagine her husband bound, but seemed to hit a limit.

Your husband loved the idea of being physically restrained—of being dominated, especially by a woman passionate about intimacy.
Once both arms were tightly bound with the restraints from this bag, sometimes he'd finish without any activity at all, just from the pressure.

Really?

Have you ever experienced being dominated? It doesn't feel terrifying if you believe you'll eventually be freed.
But each time I tied the knot with cunning precision, making it clear it couldn't be undone,
and the despair of knowing it was impossible to escape settled in, along with the fear of being bound forever—
strangely, your husband's body would respond on its own.

…

She fell silent. I realized the tangled ropes inside the bag had captured her gaze.

Do you know how to tie them?

No. Do I need to learn?

Of course. Binding someone is almost an art. Only then can you instill the fear that it's impossible to escape…
That was the secret. He enjoyed it immensely.

I stood there, clutching the ring, lost in memory.

What's this?

A wig and a silver hairpin. The kind you'd see on TV or as props. No one wears wigs like this anymore. I had it specially made.
When my hair wasn't long enough to tie up, I wore this wig. But now, as you see, I have long, natural hair.
I always tie it up neatly with this pin. He always asked me to wear my hair like this.
You'll need to grow your hair longer. Until then, you'll have to wear the wig.

What does this tied-up wig have to do with anything?

She asked, stroking her own wrists—perhaps finally feeling the reality of her husband's bound hands.

I was grateful she casually let the word he slip out, breaking the conversational tension.

He always wanted me to have this hairstyle during intimacy. It was part of the setup. He believed our time was complete only like this.
Oh, there's a jacket too—inside the bag. Yes, that one. He loved it when I wore only this short jacket, completely naked below,
swinging my breasts freely, writhing on top of him. Very much…

I wanted to boast about the memories I had with that jacket.

With my hair tied up, nothing on, the beauty of my curves exposed beneath the short jacket—
I discovered it through him. Even when he wasn't around, I'd often stand before the mirror in that outfit and marvel at myself.

The thrilling sensation of the rough fabric brushing against my sensitive skin every time I moved against him—

I added that he had probably known about this feeling long before I did.

Do you never take the jacket off?

No. And there's one more thing—there's a traditional skirt in the bag. You must spread it on the bed before anything else.

Why?

He liked the tickling sensation of the fluttering fabric against his back.

She held the skirt, mimicking the motion, brushing it against her own back.

And then?

Her questions were turning more active. I could feel the stories and objects I had to give her running out—
and with them, the time she had to remember him slipping away.

Also, there should be a flyswatter in the bag. You start slowly beating him with it while he's tied. Don't show mercy just because he's bound.
How many extras do you have? They tend to break easily, so you should always keep spares ready.

I was worrying needlessly.

What's this?

A pot lid.

No, why a pot lid?

He asked for a brass chamber pot lid, but those were hard to find. So I got a teapot lid of similar size instead.
The use is… a bit hard to explain…

What do you use it for?

Before intimacy, you collect my urine in the lid, and while it's still wet, you place it over his face.
He loved licking the still-damp urine from inside it.
If you move too vigorously on top of him, or if he licks too eagerly, it might fall off. So you must always keep one hand on the handle,
pressing it firmly over his face. Got it?

She stared in shock, then slightly stuck out her tongue, mimicking licking around her mouth.

Clearly, she was mentally retracing her husband's footsteps.

Do you actually do it?

Of course. But only in one position.

One position?

With his arms tied to these rings, what else can you do? I just ride him, moving up and down.

You just move like that?

Good question. You don't just move up and down. You rotate wildly—side to side, front to back—until it feels like it's being torn inside.
He loved that. And while doing it…

While doing it?

I repeated several times, showing her exactly how to respond at the same time.

She stared blankly, sometimes lowering her head, sometimes lifting it, sometimes shedding tears.

That's not all. When he finishes, you have to wait.

Wait?

Even after he's soft, you must stay mounted, waiting for his next finish.

Next finish?

You must wait until he pees while still inside you. That's the climax he loves most. You'll have to do it too.

But then his urine will flow…

Yes. While riding him, his warm piss overflowing—hot, thick, more intense than finishing.
You don't know? Sometimes it's stronger than climax. You should try it.
And when he's done, you remove the lid from his face, flip it, and standing like a man, you piss on his face while shouting.
Only then is it truly over. That's everything. There's nothing more.
Can you believe it took five years to reach this point? Most of what he said came out during these times.

As my story neared its end, I couldn't believe her face was brightening—but I had to accept it.

Maybe she thought it was nothing special, after all.

But could she understand what I'd endured—how I'd been dragged into his twisted world until I, too, became addicted?

Is that all?

Yes. That's everything. I'm asking this of you, though it may seem impudent, in exchange for returning your husband.
If you can't meet his demands, he'll wander again, looking for a second, a third woman like me.

It's not bad… I mean, that's manageable…

What? Not bad?

Her response left me stunned.

I had a rough idea already. May I ask you something? Have you ever eaten human feces?

What? Feces?

I felt like I'd been punched in the back of the head.

Yes. The reason I resisted his advances was because of the perverse acts my father forced on me as a child.
An only daughter, raised in a respected academic family, growing up lonely with a widowed father. A pretty picture, isn't it?
But inside, it was completely different.
I hate men. But I don't like women either. I've regretted marrying into such an abnormal family.
But perhaps I finally caught my breath? I admit it—my husband's affair, the secrets I couldn't tell anyone, actually made me feel at ease.
Ropes? Bondage? A mother figure pinning him down while bound? That's familiar to me.
Because my father did the same to me.
I finally understand what "birds of a feather" means. Urination during intimacy—I've known that for a long time.
But a chamber pot, his hands gripping your head so you can't move, the chunk of human waste forced into your mouth—
you couldn't even imagine that, could you?
Was it revenge for my mom, who killed herself with her lover?
Maybe my mother-in-law hated her husband, who'd always cheated, and took it out on me as maternal revenge.
Well… the world is what it is…

I had no words. It wasn't that I'd exposed her to the world—she had already been watching from outside, observing my childish brick-laying.

Shame and humiliation shook my mind completely.

Thank you. For all your effort… I worried so much, thinking I'd grown close to you for some special reason over five years…
To be precise, five years, six months, and twelve days. Last Monday, when he had his final time with you…

Th-th-that long…

Let's say vacation's over. I still hate my father who tormented me, but… sometimes I miss the intensity of that intimacy.
The sweet pain of being bound—if you forget it, you're not even human. I'll keep my setup. He'll adapt quickly.
We might even switch roles sometimes. It could be fun. Anyway, thank you.
And here—this is your fee. For giving me five years of peace. Hye-won opened the floodgates, but I controlled the flow. Well then…

She left the room. I stood in the empty, lifeless space, staring at the envelope in my hand—longer than I could remember.