Chapter 1 — Virgin Memories

It happened during our college graduation trip.

Back then, my department stayed at a hotel in Gyeongju. Like any other major, there were couples among us—but at the time, I was involved not with my future husband, but with a senior from my department who'd already completed his military service.

Honestly, the senior and I had shared many experiences and intimate moments. But the most shocking, nerve-wracking, and unforgettable sex—the first and last time we ever did it—was during that graduation trip.

Back then, I was in a different undergraduate program than my current husband. We rarely saw each other, and the idea of being "in love" or officially "dating" wasn't something concrete between us. So whenever I wanted it—or he did—we freely had sex, and both of us were satisfied.

As usual when traveling, we had dinner and went sightseeing around the city. We wandered in small groups through downtown Gyeongju and returned to the hotel late at night. Most people were already showering or preparing to sleep, but as planned, we met in the lounge on the top floor of the hotel.

The lights in the hallway were off, and being alone in the dark corridor was unsettling—but soon, Daniel arrived. We naturally took the stairs down to the lobby of the highest guest room floor, and found the elevator hall completely empty, just as expected. We claimed a sofa in the deserted space.

It was dim, but indirect lighting and the illuminated floor indicator on the elevator panel provided enough glow to make out each other's faces and surroundings.

We began, as always, with deep, lingering kisses, our lips pressing together hungrily. The thrill of doing something so intimate in such an unexpected place sent an uncontrollable surge of excitement through me.

His sweet, intoxicating kisses always pulled me in completely. But even more impressive was the skill and finesse of his hands.

His palms slid behind my back, gently caressing my shoulders and spine, slowly tracing along the strap lines of my bra, teasing my body open inch by inch.

Occasionally, one hand would drift lower, gripping my hips—sometimes firmly, sometimes softly—and each time, an unbearable tremor would ripple up from deep inside, electrifying me.

The sensation of his hand moving over my jeans, touching my ass, was indescribably good—the same hand that always embarrassed me on buses or campus, making me squirm with secret arousal.

When he pulled back slightly from our kiss, creating a small distance between our bodies, I knew it was his signal—he was about to touch my breasts.

Without unbuttoning my shirt or pulling it fully out of my jeans, he slid his hand beneath the fabric, grabbing a handful of my breast over my bra. Then, slowly, he lifted the cup and fully cupped one breast, squeezing it tightly. He pinched my nipple between his fingers, tugging it gently, then releasing—again and again.

All his techniques were good, but nothing compared to when he took my nipple into his mouth and bit it hard. That was the most intense stimulation of all.

I think my nipples must be my most sensitive erogenous zone.

While I surrendered to his touch, pleasure washing over me, a sudden wave of anxiety crept in—this place, of all places. But strangely, that very unease only heightened my arousal.

Daniel seemed nervous too, clearly more hurried than usual. But I found his urgency amusing, so I deliberately slowed things down, guiding him to take his time.

What if someone showed up on our floor right now? Every time the elevator lights blinked and the floor number changed, I knew we could escape in the worst case—but still, the thought of being caught was undeniably unnerving.

If the elevator doors opened, the sofa would be directly in view. Anyone stepping out would see us, naked and entwined, without a shred of concealment.

I'd briefly considered wearing a wide flare skirt in case of emergencies, but I knew the sensation of his hands moving over my jeans was far more thrilling. Coming up here in jeans had turned out to be the right choice.

He was clearly anxious, eager to finish faster than usual—probably desperate to escape the danger as quickly as possible.

But I held him back. I wasn't about to rush this. Not when I could savor every second of such an exhilarating, exposed encounter—my first time having sex in a public, open space during our graduation trip. I had no intention of hurrying through it.

"Daniel," I whispered, "undress me… completely."

He looked at me, startled.

"What if someone comes?"

He hesitated for a moment, but at my urging, he seemed to steel himself. He unbuttoned my shirt, shrugged it off his shoulders, then reached behind me and expertly unhooked my bra.

As the clothes came off, a rush of cool air hit my bare upper body—and with it, a fresh wave of anxiety that only amplified my excitement.

He knelt beside me on the sofa, unbuttoned my jeans, unzipped them, then slid his hands to my hips and pulled them down. I lifted my hips to help, making it easier for him.

Normally, he was unusually attentive to my underwear—taking his time, savoring every piece. But not tonight. Probably because of the tension.

He always wanted to undress me himself. Sometimes, he'd make me kneel and slowly strip me down, one item at a time, as if it were a ritual.

He'd run his hands over my panties, stroking my slit and ass, sniffing them, sometimes soaking the fabric completely with his mouth and tongue.

He'd spread my legs, use his tongue to push the fabric aside, then dive in—licking my inner lips and clit, or sometimes, with my panties still on, he'd pull the crotch to the side and thrust straight in.

At first, I thought he was a pervert. Later, I learned other men did this too.

But tonight, he hurried—yanking my panties down, giving only perfunctory attention before immediately trying to enter me. I wasn't satisfied.

I lifted my hips slightly, stopping him, stalling—hoping, even I didn't know why, for something different, something special.

He looked slightly annoyed, gave me an irritated glance—but then, as if giving up on rushing, he settled in.

Just as I wanted, he positioned himself between my wide-open legs on the sofa, licking my pussy and anus with his tongue, thrusting his fingers in and out hard, over and over.

"Can I come in your mouth…? Can I? You'll let me, right…?"

He repeated the same plea, trying to get me to promise.

I'd always assumed that cumming inside a woman's body was the default in sex—but the idea of taking that bitter, salty load into my mouth? I wasn't sure I could handle it.

And until that moment, I'd never once held a man's semen in my mouth. I hesitated—then thought, Tonight… maybe I can.

"Yeah…" I whispered.

Suddenly, he lit up, excited. He started tearing off his own clothes. And just like that, we were both completely naked, lost in passionate sex in a public, dangerous place where anyone could walk in.

He hurried beneath me, attaching his mouth to my pussy, licking loudly.

"Open wider…"

He pinched my labia between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing them roughly. He plunged his fingers deep inside, muttering something under his breath—words I couldn't make out.

His cock was fully erect, swollen to an enormous size, ready to thrust in the moment I let my guard down. I stayed alert, stalling—but the silence of the empty guest floor, the fact that it was just the two of us, began to dull my excitement slightly.

He inserted his middle finger, palm facing up, and began rapidly, gently stimulating the upper inner wall of my vagina.

Every time his finger brushed that spot inside me—different from any other touch or technique—a violent shiver ran through my body, delivering an overwhelming, peak pleasure.

For a split second, it felt like stars were exploding, like my body was free-falling as if from a bungee jump—the highest joy imaginable.

He knew my body well. He understood my sensitive spots, could control me at will, and always gave us both satisfying sex.

But this time, even if I wasn't actively hoping someone would walk in or watch us, I still wanted this encounter—so different from our usual ones, in such an unusual place—to feel special.

I didn't know when it started, but I'd begun to think: If it's someone I trust, someone respectful—man or woman, stranger or acquaintance—maybe I could let them see me having sex.

And every time I had that thought, an unbearable excitement surged through me.

Even when we were at his place, I'd always been nervous about the neighbors. But in those moments, I'd wonder:

What if they're secretly watching us right now?

What if they can see my naked body, see his cock inside my shameful, exposed parts?

What if they see me riding him, moving my hips, or sucking him off?

What if they're looking up from below, seeing my legs spread wide, my body lifted, as he thrusts into me—what would it look like from down there?

Would they get turned on?

I might let them see—just once…

I'd imagined it countless times, each fantasy sending me into extreme arousal, a strange, secret pleasure. But nothing ever happened. It couldn't.

Once, late at night, we'd had sex in the university library. Between the library building and a small storage shed, there was a narrow passage—just wide enough for one person. On the other side was the high retaining wall of the female dormitory. It wasn't a real path, just an empty space no one used.

We were drinking vending machine coffee, chatting, when suddenly his eyes changed, his breathing grew strange. Without warning, he grabbed my hand and pulled me into that passage.

I was startled, almost annoyed—but I was used to his unpredictable urges. And every time, I ended up completely satisfied. So I quickly finished my coffee and waited for his next move.

No one came here. It was past 2 a.m. The streetlight was bothersome, but I decided to trust him. Leaning against the wall, I closed my eyes and let his kiss make me wet.

I was lost in the sensation—his hands on my chest, his lips brushing my neck and ears—when I suddenly noticed someone watching us through the thick forsythia bushes atop the dormitory wall.

I could tell instantly it was a woman, and she was alone. Probably a female student who'd been studying late and stepped out for some air.

I hesitated. Should I leave? Should I tell him someone was watching?

But before I could decide, he turned me around, lifted my skirt to my waist, and told me to bend over.

I gripped my knees with one hand, braced the other against the wall—before I could say anything, I was bent over, taking him from behind.

The fact that someone was watching was far more distracting than the act itself. The physical pleasure was no different than usual—but slowly, an unknown excitement built inside me, fueled by the woman hidden in the forsythia, silently observing us.

I decided not to tell him. Instead, I moved with his rhythm, positioning my body so she could see us more clearly.

For the first time, I deliberately made loud, exaggerated moans.

Of course, he noticed.

"What's wrong with you? What if someone comes? Can't you be quiet?"

He told me to stop moaning—but I only replied:

"Daniel… it feels so good… harder… ugh…!"

I exaggerated my sounds, my movements. As we continued, he lifted me, holding me close, gripping my hips as he thrust. I wrapped my legs around his waist to match his pace.

Then, lifting one of my legs, he pushed me against the wall and entered me. It lasted less than ten minutes. The whole time, she stayed—watching, not leaving.

He looked at me strangely, confused by my unusual behavior. But I just smiled, wrapped my arms around his neck, and kissed him deeply, passionately. Only after confirming she was still there did I pull away and head back first.

Surprised, he tried to stop me, insisting on walking me back.

I gently smiled, declined his offer—and then said:

"There was a girl up there. She saw everything we did… from the very beginning."

"What? Who…? Really? Why didn't you tell me?"

He stared at me, annoyed, almost angry. But it didn't matter. That night, I realized something I couldn't easily explain—a strange, hidden part of my sexuality, a satisfaction so deep and indescribable, it came from being seen.

After that, I started soothing his temper and complaints more than before. But despite being three years older, I began to see him as still just a child.

Not because of age or experience—but because of a fundamental difference in thinking, a gap I now knew could never be closed.

His movements grew more intense. I could tell he was close—his breathing ragged, his focus narrowing on that one spot inside me—when I suddenly heard footsteps on the emergency stairwell beside the elevator hall.

Running shoes. Someone was coming up.

From the rhythm, I realized there were two people. And from their muffled voices, I guessed they were a couple from our department—just like us.

At that moment, I was completely naked, reclining on the sofa, enjoying his cunnilingus. He was half-naked too—pants pulled down to mid-thigh, shirt unbuttoned all the way.

The footsteps grew closer. I couldn't move. Neither could he.

Being unexpectedly seen during sex is terrifying. But if it's intentional? It can bring an indescribable thrill.

But when it actually happens, you can't help but panic.

He jumped up, yanking his pants up, fastening his buttons, urging me to get dressed—now.

But it was too late.

My panties, bra, even my tiny clothes—they weren't neatly laid out. In the chaos of grabbing them, we'd be exposed, scrambling naked in front of them.

Better to give up. All we could do was hope it wouldn't get worse.

"Daniel… sit beside me. Cover me."

He understood—there was no time. He sat beside me, wrapping his arms around my naked body, shielding me.

My heart pounded. The situation was unbearably awkward, humiliating. But I held onto one thing: trust. And so, tense yet calm, I closed my eyes and leaned into him.

The door to the stairwell opened carefully. Two people stepped into the L-shaped corridor—just as expected, it was them.

If they'd come here at this hour, their purpose was obvious. And if they saw us… maybe it was okay.

I took a deep breath, bracing myself for the inevitable.

We were in a recessed area of the straight corridor. They were around the L-bend—out of sight—but only a few meters away. We could hear every word they said.

They seemed nervous about being out in the open. They leaned against the wall near the stairwell door, facing each other, clearly planning to do it right there.

I was relieved they weren't coming toward the elevator hall—where I was completely naked. But I still couldn't move to get dressed.

"What if someone comes?"

"It's fine… no one comes here. If someone does, we'll hide fast. Don't worry."

"But still… let's just go down…"

Their conversation continued. Then I heard C, an upperclassman from our department, his voice excited. His hurried movements, and the way S—the girl with him, also my close friend—seemed to resist, came through clearly, creating a strange, electric tension.

As a small wave of relief washed over me, Daniel's right arm—draped over my shoulder—tightened.

His hand clamped down on my bare breast, squeezing hard, pinching my nipple between his fingers.

Naked, wrapped in his arms, listening to another couple's secret moment unfold just meters away—even though I could only hear it—the sensation was shockingly thrilling.

I turned his face toward me, covered his mouth, and giggled.

He froze, eyes wide, face pale with panic. But I was laughing, so turned on, I didn't even think about being naked. I grabbed his hand and guided it between my legs, making him rub my clit.

He looked utterly defeated, exasperated—but he obeyed.

"Don't… stop… let's go somewhere else…"

S said that, but I could hear her clothes being peeled off by C, one piece at a time.

Harsh breathing, wet smacking sounds filled the air. She tried to resist, but her moans—"Ugh… ugh…!"—came through clearly, drenching my lower body with excitement.

I couldn't take it. I placed one of his hands on my breast, the other back on my clit, making him stroke me with both. He nearly cried, humiliated—but he had no choice. He moved exactly as I wanted, like a well-behaved student following orders.

As I enjoyed his touch and listened to the other couple's movements, wave after wave of unfamiliar pleasure and trembling surged through me. I almost felt like they were watching us.

I could imagine it: S, leaning against the wall, her bra pushed up, C kneeling, sucking her breasts and nipples loudly. The two of them clinging tightly, licking each other's necks and ears, hands roaming, lost in passion.

"Sit down…"

"Huh? Why?"

"I don't know… just sit… hurry!"

I felt her kneel. Then his pants dropped.

There was slight resistance—but then, unmistakably, C's cock entered S's mouth. I heard her sucking, licking.

C, unlike Daniel, moaned loudly. I knew men could make those sounds, but hearing it now—it was so ridiculous, I nearly died laughing.

S stood up. I felt C lift one of her leg, then thrust into her. The sound of her back hitting the wall echoed.

Then, soon after, she braced both hands against the wall, bent forward. He entered her from behind, thrusting back and forth. The slap of his hips against her ass, the wet sounds, their excited moans—none of it stopped.

Then, suddenly, Daniel gasped—"Ugh… ugh…!"—and groaned, "Now… now… I'm coming…"

And she responded—"Uh… uh… yes…!"

At that moment, Daniel cried out loudly—"Ugh… yuck…!"—and she let out the same trembling, breathless moan I felt deep inside.

The entire scene played out so vividly, as if I'd watched it all. But strangely, I didn't feel for C—I felt for her, my friend. A playful, mischievous camaraderie surged through me. I almost wanted to call out, just to see what would happen.

Curious, I looked at Daniel's face. He looked like a soldier caught by the enemy—terrified, on the verge of tears.

Just as I gave up on the idea of doing anything, I heard clothes rustling. The door opened. They left, heading down the stairs.

Only then did Daniel exhale, nearly collapsing as he stood. He found my clothes, helped me dress, then walked down with a cold, distant expression.

I saw it all—the embarrassment, the awkwardness, the disappointment in him. He was turned off, disillusioned by this other side of me.

But I? I walked back to my room alone, replaying in my mind the strange, thrilling tremors of being seen, of seeing, of someone else almost stepping into our world.

Back in our girls' room, she was already there—my friend, sitting quietly, her face blank, as if nothing had happened.

But I knew exactly what she'd just done. I could even guess what her most private parts looked like right now. And I started laughing.

She looked at me, then smiled awkwardly.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing… did you shower? Or did you go somewhere with Senior C?"

"Huh… you…?"

"Yeah. We met. It was nice."

She leaned in.

"Wait, really? Where'd you go? What did you do?"

"Oh… just… a nice place…"

"Where?"

"Um… the top floor… the very top…"

"You… you were there?"

We were close, but when I said that, she lowered her eyes, flustered for a moment.

A few seconds later, she looked up, gave me an awkward smile.

That night, we shared a bed, tickling each other playfully, talking for hours—bonded by a silent, electric understanding.

"Hey… I'm still leaking…"

"Hehe… go wash up."

"But… I don't even want to…"